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The Talisman by Sir Walter Scott Chapter 27

We heard the Tecbir — so these Arabs call

Their shout of onset, when, with loud acclaim,

They challenge Heaven to give them victory.

SIEGE OF DAMASCUS.

On the subsequent morning Richard was invited to a conference by Philip of France, in which the latter, with many expressions of his high esteem for his brother of England, communicated to him in terms extremely courteous, but too explicit to be misunderstood, his positive intention to return to Europe, and to the cares of his kingdom, as entirely despairing of future success in their undertaking, with their diminished forces and civil discords. Richard remonstrated, but in vain; and when the conference ended he received without surprise a manifesto from the Duke of Austria, and several other princes, announcing a resolution similar to that of Philip, and in no modified terms, assigning, for their defection from the cause of the Cross, the inordinate ambition and arbitrary domination of Richard of England. All hopes of continuing the war with any prospect of ultimate success were now abandoned; and Richard, while he shed bitter tears over his disappointed hopes of glory, was little consoled by the recollection that the failure was in some degree to be imputed to the advantages which he had given his enemies by his own hasty and imprudent temper.

“They had not dared to have deserted my father thus,” he said to De Vaux, in the bitterness of his resentment. “No slanders they could have uttered against so wise a king would have been believed in Christendom; whereas — fool that I am! — I have not only afforded them a pretext for deserting me, but even a colour for casting all the blame of the rupture upon my unhappy foibles.”

These thoughts were so deeply galling to the King, that De Vaux was rejoiced when the arrival of an ambassador from Saladin turned his reflections into a different channel.

This new envoy was an Emir much respected by the Soldan, whose name was Abdallah el Hadgi. He derived his descent from the family of the Prophet, and the race or tribe of Hashem, in witness of which genealogy he wore a green turban of large dimensions. He had also three times performed the journey to Mecca, from which he derived his epithet of El Hadgi, or the Pilgrim. Notwithstanding these various pretensions to sanctity, Abdallah was (for an Arab) a boon companion, who enjoyed a merry tale, and laid aside his gravity so far as to quaff a blithe flagon when secrecy ensured him against scandal. He was likewise a statesman, whose abilities had been used by Saladin in various negotiations with the Christian princes, and particularly with Richard, to whom El Hadgi was personally known and acceptable. Animated by the cheerful acquiescence with which the envoy of Saladin afforded a fair field for the combat, a safe conduct for all who might choose to witness it, and offered his own person as a guarantee of his fidelity, Richard soon forgot his disappointed hopes, and the approaching dissolution of the Christian league, in the interesting discussions preceding a combat in the lists.

The station called the Diamond of the Desert was assigned for the place of conflict, as being nearly at an equal distance betwixt the Christian and Saracen camps. It was agreed that Conrade of Montserrat, the defendant, with his godfathers, the Archduke of Austria and the Grand Master of the Templars, should appear there on the day fixed for the combat, with a hundred armed followers, and no more; that Richard of England and his brother Salisbury, who supported the accusation, should attend with the same number, to protect his champion; and that the Soldan should bring with him a guard of five hundred chosen followers, a band considered as not more than equal to the two hundred Christian lances. Such persons of consideration as either party chose to invite to witness the contest were to wear no other weapons than their swords, and to come without defensive armour. The Soldan undertook the preparation of the lists, and to provide accommodations and refreshments of every kind for all who were to assist at the solemnity; and his letters expressed with much courtesy the pleasure which he anticipated in the prospect of a personal and peaceful meeting with the Melech Ric, and his anxious desire to render his reception as agreeable as possible.

All preliminaries being arranged and communicated to the defendant and his godfathers, Abdullah the Hadgi was admitted to a more private interview, where he heard with delight the strains of Blondel. Having first carefully put his green turban out of sight, and assumed a Greek cap in its stead, he requited the Norman minstrel’s music with a drinking song from the Persian, and quaffed a hearty flagon of Cyprus wine, to show that his practice matched his principles. On the next day, grave and sober as the water-drinker Mirglip, he bent his brow to the ground before Saladin’s footstool, and rendered to the Soldan an account of his embassy.

On the day before that appointed for the combat Conrade and his friends set off by daybreak to repair to the place assigned, and Richard left the camp at the same hour and for the same purpose; but, as had been agreed upon, he took his journey by a different route — a precaution which had been judged necessary, to prevent the possibility of a quarrel betwixt their armed attendants.

The good King himself was in no humour for quarrelling with any one. Nothing could have added to his pleasurable anticipations of a desperate and bloody combat in the lists, except his being in his own royal person one of the combatants; and he was half in charity again even with Conrade of Montserrat. Lightly armed, richly dressed, and gay as a bridegroom on the eve of his nuptials, Richard caracoled along by the side of Queen Berengaria’s litter, pointing out to her the various scenes through which they passed, and cheering with tale and song the bosom of the inhospitable wilderness. The former route of the Queen’s pilgrimage to Engaddi had been on the other side of the chain of mountains, so that the ladies were strangers to the scenery of the desert; and though Berengaria knew her husband’s disposition too well not to endeavour to seem interested in what he was pleased either to say or to sing, she could not help indulging some female fears when she found herself in the howling wilderness with so small an escort, which seemed almost like a moving speck on the bosom of the plain, and knew at the same time they were not so distant from the camp of Saladin, but what they might be in a moment surprised and swept off by an overpowering host of his fiery-footed cavalry, should the pagan be faithless enough to embrace an opportunity thus tempting. But when she hinted these suspicions to Richard he repelled them with displeasure and disdain. “It were worse than ingratitude,” he said, “to doubt the good faith of the generous Soldan.”

Yet the same doubts and fears recurred more than once, not to the timid mind of the Queen alone, but to the firmer and more candid soul of Edith Plantagenet, who had no such confidence in the faith of the Moslem as to render her perfectly at ease when so much in their power; and her surprise had been far less than her terror, if the desert around had suddenly resounded with the shout of ALLAH HU! and a band of Arab cavalry had pounced on them like vultures on their prey. Nor were these suspicions lessened when, as evening approached, they were aware of a single Arab horseman, distinguished by his turban and long lance, hovering on the edge of a small eminence like a hawk poised in the air, and who instantly, on the appearance of the royal retinue, darted off with the speed of the same bird when it shoots down the wind and disappears from the horizon.

“We must be near the station,” said King Richard; “and yonder cavalier is one of Saladin’s outposts — methinks I hear the noise of the Moorish horns and cymbals. Get you into order, my hearts, and form yourselves around the ladies soldierlike and firmly.”

As he spoke, each knight, squire, and archer hastily closed in upon his appointed ground, and they proceeded in the most compact order, which made their numbers appear still smaller. And to say the truth, though there might be no fear, there was anxiety as well as curiosity in the attention with which they listened to the wild bursts of Moorish music, which came ever and anon more distinctly from the quarter in which the Arab horseman had been seen to disappear.

De Vaux spoke in a whisper to the King. “Were it not well, my liege, to send a page to the top of that sand-bank? Or would it stand with your pleasure that I prick forward? Methinks, by all yonder clash and clang, if there be no more than five hundred men beyond the sand-hills, half of the Soldan’s retinue must be drummers and cymbal-tossers. Shall I spur on?”

The baron had checked his horse with the bit, and was just about to strike him with the spurs when the King exclaimed, “Not for the world. Such a caution would express suspicion, and could do little to prevent surprise, which, however, I apprehend not.”

They advanced accordingly in close and firm order till they surmounted the line of low sand-hills, and came in sight of the appointed station, when a splendid, but at the same time a startling, spectacle awaited them.

The Diamond of the Desert, so lately a solitary fountain, distinguished only amid the waste by solitary groups of palm-trees, was now the centre of an encampment, the embroidered flags and gilded ornaments of which glittered far and wide, and reflected a thousand rich tints against the setting sun. The coverings of the large pavilions were of the gayest colours — scarlet, bright yellow, pale blue, and other gaudy and gleaming hues — and the tops of their pillars, or tent-poles, were decorated with golden pomegranates and small silken flags. But besides these distinguished pavilions, there were what Thomas de Vaux considered as a portentous number of the ordinary black tents of the Arabs, being sufficient, as he conceived, to accommodate, according to the Eastern fashion, a host of five thousand men. A number of Arabs and Kurds, fully corresponding to the extent of the encampment, were hastily assembling, each leading his horse in his hand, and their muster was accompanied by an astonishing clamour of their noisy instruments of martial music, by which, in all ages, the warfare of the Arabs has been animated.

They soon formed a deep and confused mass of dismounted cavalry in front of their encampment, when, at the signal of a shrill cry, which arose high over the clangour of the music, each cavalier sprung to his saddle. A cloud of dust arising at the moment of this manoeuvre hid from Richard and his attendants the camp, the palm-trees, and the distant ridge of mountains, as well as the troops whose sudden movement had raised the cloud, and, ascending high over their heads, formed itself into the fantastic forms of writhed pillars, domes, and minarets. Another shrill yell was heard from the bosom of this cloudy tabernacle. It was the signal for the cavalry to advance, which they did at full gallop, disposing themselves as they came forward so as to come in at once on the front, flanks, and rear of Richard’s little bodyguard, who were thus surrounded, and almost choked by the dense clouds of dust enveloping them on each side, through which were seen alternately, and lost, the grim forms and wild faces of the Saracens, brandishing and tossing their lances in every possible direction with the wildest cries and halloos, and frequently only reining up their horses when within a spear’s length of the Christians, while those in the rear discharged over the heads of both parties thick volleys of arrows. One of these struck the litter in which the Queen was seated, who loudly screamed, and the red spot was on Richard’s brow in an instant.

“Ha! Saint George,” he exclaimed, “we must take some order with this infidel scum!”

But Edith, whose litter was near, thrust her head out, and with her hand holding one of the shafts, exclaimed, “Royal Richard, beware what you do! see, these arrows are headless!”

“Noble, sensible wench!” exclaimed Richard; “by Heaven, thou shamest us all by thy readiness of thought and eye. — Be not moved, my English hearts,” he exclaimed to his followers; “their arrows have no heads — and their spears, too, lack the steel points. It is but a wild welcome, after their savage fashion, though doubtless they would rejoice to see us daunted or disturbed. Move onward, slow and steady.”

The little phalanx moved forward accordingly, accompanied on all sides by the Arabs, with the shrillest and most piercing cries, the bowmen, meanwhile, displaying their agility by shooting as near the crests of the Christians as was possible, without actually hitting them, while the lancers charged each other with such rude blows of their blunt weapons that more than one of them lost his saddle, and well-nigh his life, in this rough sport. All this, though designed to express welcome, had rather a doubtful appearance in the eyes of the Europeans.

As they had advanced nearly half way towards the camp, King Richard and his suite forming, as it were, the nucleus round which this tumultuary body of horsemen howled, whooped, skirmished, and galloped, creating a scene of indescribable confusion, another shrill cry was heard, on which all these irregulars, who were on the front and upon the flanks of the little body of Europeans, wheeled off; and forming themselves into a long and deep column, followed with comparative order and silence in the rear of Richard’s troops. The dust began now to dissipate in their front, when there advanced to meet them through that cloudy veil a body of cavalry of a different and more regular description, completely armed with offensive and defensive weapons, and who might well have served as a bodyguard to the proudest of Eastern monarchs. This splendid troop consisted of five hundred men and each horse which it contained was worth an earl’s ransom. The riders were Georgian and Circassian slaves in the very prime of life. Their helmets and hauberks were formed of steel rings, so bright that they shone like silver; their vestures were of the gayest colours, and some of cloth of gold or silver; the sashes were twisted with silk and gold, their rich turbans were plumed and jewelled, and their sabres and poniards, of Damascene steel, were adorned with gold and gems on hilt and scabbard.

This splendid array advanced to the sound of military music, and when they met the Christian body they opened their files to the right and left, and let them enter between their ranks. Richard now assumed the foremost place in his troop, aware that Saladin himself was approaching. Nor was it long when, in the centre of his bodyguard, surrounded by his domestic officers and those hideous negroes who guard the Eastern haram, and whose misshapen forms were rendered yet more frightful by the richness of their attire, came the Soldan, with the look and manners of one on whose brow Nature had written, This is a King! In his snow-white turban, vest, and wide Eastern trousers, wearing a sash of scarlet silk, without any other ornament, Saladin might have seemed the plainest-dressed man in his own guard. But closer inspection discerned in his turban that inestimable gem which was called by the poets the Sea of Light; the diamond on which his signet was engraved, and which he wore in a ring, was probably worth all the jewels of the English crown; and a sapphire which terminated the hilt of his cangiar was not of much inferior value. It should be added that, to protect himself from the dust, which in the vicinity of the Dead Sea resembles the finest ashes, or, perhaps, out of Oriental pride, the Soldan wore a sort of veil attached to his turban, which partly obscured the view of his noble features. He rode a milk-white Arabian, which bore him as if conscious and proud of his noble burden.

There was no need of further introduction. The two heroic monarchs — for such they both were — threw themselves at once from horseback, and the troops halting and the music suddenly ceasing, they advanced to meet each other in profound silence, and after a courteous inclination on either side they embraced as brethren and equals. The pomp and display upon both sides attracted no further notice — no one saw aught save Richard and Saladin, and they too beheld nothing but each other. The looks with which Richard surveyed Saladin were, however, more intently curious than those which the Soldan fixed upon him; and the Soldan also was the first to break silence.

“The Melech Ric is welcome to Saladin as water to this desert. I trust he hath no distrust of this numerous array. Excepting the armed slaves of my household, those who surround you with eyes of wonder and of welcome are — even the humblest of them — the privileged nobles of my thousand tribes; for who that could claim a title to be present would remain at home when such a Prince was to be seen as Richard, with the terrors of whose name, even on the sands of Yemen, the nurse stills her child, and the free Arab subdues his restive steed!”

“And these are all nobles of Araby?” said Richard, looking around on wild forms with their persons covered with haiks, their countenance swart with the sunbeams, their teeth as white as ivory, their black eyes glancing with fierce and preternatural lustre from under the shade of their turbans, and their dress being in general simple even to meanness.

“They claim such rank,” said Saladin; “but though numerous, they are within the conditions of the treaty, and bear no arms but the sabre — even the iron of their lances is left behind.”

“I fear,” muttered De Vaux in English, “they have left them where they can be soon found. A most flourishing House of Peers, I confess, and would find Westminster Hall something too narrow for them.”

“Hush, De Vaux,” said Richard, “I command thee. — Noble Saladin,” he said, “suspicion and thou cannot exist on the same ground. Seest thou,” pointing to the litters, “I too have brought some champions with me, though armed, perhaps, in breach of agreement; for bright eyes and fair features are weapons which cannot be left behind.”

The Soldan, turning to the litters, made an obeisance as lowly as if looking towards Mecca, and kissed the sand in token of respect.

“Nay,” said Richard, “they will not fear a closer encounter, brother; wilt thou not ride towards their litters, and the curtains will be presently withdrawn?”

“That may Allah prohibit!” said Saladin, “since not an Arab looks on who would not think it shame to the noble ladies to be seen with their faces uncovered.”

“Thou shalt see them, then, in private, brother,” answered Richard.

“To what purpose?” answered Saladin mournfully. “Thy last letter was, to the hopes which I had entertained, like water to fire; and wherefore should I again light a flame which may indeed consume, but cannot cheer me? But will not my brother pass to the tent which his servant hath prepared for him? My principal black slave hath taken order for the reception of the Princesses, the officers of my household will attend your followers, and ourself will be the chamberlain of the royal Richard.”

He led the way accordingly to a splendid pavilion, where was everything that royal luxury could devise. De Vaux, who was in attendance, then removed the chappe (CAPA), or long riding-cloak, which Richard wore, and he stood before Saladin in the close dress which showed to advantage the strength and symmetry of his person, while it bore a strong contrast to the flowing robes which disguised the thin frame. of the Eastern monarch. It was Richard’s two-handed sword that chiefly attracted the attention of the Saracen — a broad, straight blade, the seemingly unwieldy length of which extended well-nigh from the shoulder to the heel of the wearer.

“Had I not,” said Saladin, “seen this brand flaming in the front of battle, like that of Azrael, I had scarce believed that human arm could wield it. Might I request to see the Melech Ric strike one blow with it in peace, and in pure trial of strength?”

“Willingly, noble Saladin,” answered Richard; and looking around for something whereon to exercise his strength, he saw a steel mace held by one of the attendants, the handle being of the same metal, and about an inch and a half in diameter. This he placed on a block of wood.

The anxiety of De Vaux for his master’s honour led him to whisper in English, “For the blessed Virgin’s sake, beware what you attempt, my liege! Your full strength is not as yet returned — give no triumph to the infidel.”

“Peace, fool!” said Richard, standing firm on his ground, and casting a fierce glance around; “thinkest thou that I can fail in HIS presence?”

The glittering broadsword, wielded by both his hands, rose aloft to the King’s left shoulder, circled round his head, descended with the sway of some terrific engine, and the bar of iron rolled on the ground in two pieces, as a woodsman would sever a sapling with a hedging-bill.

“By the head of the Prophet, a most wonderful blow!” said the Soldan, critically and accurately examining the iron bar which had been cut asunder; and the blade of the sword was so well tempered as to exhibit not the least token of having suffered by the feat it had performed. He then took the King’s hand, and looking on the size and muscular strength which it exhibited, laughed as he placed it beside his own, so lank and thin, so inferior in brawn and sinew.

“Ay, look well,” said De Vaux in English, “it will be long ere your long jackanape’s fingers do such a feat with your fine gilded reaping-hook there.”

“Silence, De Vaux,” said Richard; “by Our Lady, he understands or guesses thy meaning — be not so broad, I pray thee.”

The Soldan, indeed, presently said, “Something I would fain attempt — though wherefore should the weak show their inferiority in presence of the strong? Yet each land hath its own exercises, and this may be new to the Melech Ric.” So saying, he took from the floor a cushion of silk and down, and placed it upright on one end. “Can thy weapon, my brother, sever that cushion?” he said to King Richard.

“No, surely,” replied the King; “no sword on earth, were it the Excalibur of King Arthur, can cut that which opposes no steady resistance to the blow.”

“Mark, then,” said Saladin; and tucking up the sleeve of his gown, showed his arm, thin indeed and spare, but which constant exercise had hardened into a mass consisting of nought but bone, brawn, and sinew. He unsheathed his scimitar, a curved and narrow blade, which glittered not like the swords of the Franks, but was, on the contrary, of a dull blue colour, marked with ten millions of meandering lines, which showed how anxiously the metal had been welded by the armourer. Wielding this weapon, apparently so inefficient when compared to that of Richard, the Soldan stood resting his weight upon his left foot, which was slightly advanced; he balanced himself a little, as if to steady his aim; then stepping at once forward, drew the scimitar across the cushion, applying the edge so dexterously, and with so little apparent effort, that the cushion seemed rather to fall asunder than to be divided by violence.

“It is a juggler’s trick,” said De Vaux, darting forward and snatching up the portion of the cushion which had been cut off, as if to assure himself of the reality of the feat; “there is gramarye in this.”

The Soldan seemed to comprehend him, for he undid the sort of veil which he had hitherto worn, laid it double along the edge of his sabre, extended the weapon edgeways in the air, and drawing it suddenly through the veil, although it hung on the blade entirely loose, severed that also into two parts, which floated to different sides of the tent, equally displaying the extreme temper and sharpness of the weapon, and the exquisite dexterity of him who used it.

“Now, in good faith, my brother,” said Richard, “thou art even matchless at the trick of the sword, and right perilous were it to meet thee! Still, however, I put some faith in a downright English blow, and what we cannot do by sleight we eke out by strength. Nevertheless, in truth thou art as expert in inflicting wounds as my sage Hakim in curing them. I trust I shall see the learned leech. I have much to thank him for, and had brought some small present.”

As he spoke, Saladin exchanged his turban for a Tartar cap. He had no sooner done so, than De Vaux opened at once his extended mouth and his large, round eyes, and Richard gazed with scarce less astonishment, while the Soldan spoke in a grave and altered voice: “The sick man, saith the poet, while he is yet infirm, knoweth the physician by his step; but when he is recovered, he knoweth not even his face when he looks upon him.”

“A miracle! — a miracle!” exclaimed Richard.

“Of Mahound’s working, doubtless,” said Thomas de Vaux.

“That I should lose my learned Hakim,” said Richard, “merely by absence of his cap and robe, and that I should find him again in my royal brother Saladin!”

“Such is oft the fashion of the world,” answered the Soldan; “the tattered robe makes not always the dervise.”

“And it was through thy intercession,” said Richard, “that yonder Knight of the Leopard was saved from death, and by thy artifice that he revisited my camp in disguise?”

“Even so,” replied Saladin. “I was physician enough to know that, unless the wounds of his bleeding honour were stanched, the days of his life must be few. His disguise was more easily penetrated than I had expected from the success of my own.”

“An accident,” said King Richard (probably alluding to the circumstance of his applying his lips to the wound of the supposed Nubian), “let me first know that his skin was artificially discoloured; and that hint once taken, detection became easy, for his form and person are not to be forgotten. I confidently expect that he will do battle on the morrow.”

“He is full in preparation, and high in hope,” said the Soldan. “I have furnished him with weapons and horse, thinking nobly of him from what I have seen under various disguises.”

“Knows he now,” said Richard, “to whom he lies under obligation?”

“He doth,” replied the Saracen. “I was obliged to confess my person when I unfolded my purpose.”

“And confessed he aught to you?” said the King of England.

“Nothing explicit,” replied the Soldan; “but from much that passed between us, I conceive his love is too highly placed to be happy in its issue.”

“And thou knowest that his daring and insolent passion crossed thine own wishes?” said Richard.

“I might guess so much,” said Saladin; “but his passion had existed ere my wishes had been formed — and, I must now add, is likely to survive them. I cannot, in honour, revenge me for my disappointment on him who had no hand in it. Or, if this high-born dame loved him better than myself, who can say that she did not justice to a knight of her own religion, who is full of nobleness?”

“Yet of too mean lineage to mix with the blood of Plantagenet,” said Richard haughtily.

“Such may be your maxims in Frangistan,” replied the Soldan. “Our poets of the Eastern countries say that a valiant camel-driver is worthy to kiss the lip of a fair Queen, when a cowardly prince is not worthy to salute the hem of her garment. But with your permission, noble brother, I must take leave of thee for the present, to receive the Duke of Austria and yonder Nazarene knight, much less worthy of hospitality, but who must yet be suitably entreated, not for their sakes, but for mine own honour — for what saith the sage Lokman? ‘Say not that the food is lost unto thee which is given to the stranger; for if his body be strengthened and fattened therewithal, not less is thine own worship and good name cherished and augmented.’”

The Saracen Monarch departed from King Richard’s tent, and having indicated to him, rather with signs than with speech, where the pavilion of the Queen and her attendants was pitched, he went to receive the Marquis of Montserrat and his attendants, for whom, with less goodwill, but with equal splendour, the magnificent Soldan had provided accommodations. The most ample refreshments, both in the Oriental and after the European fashion, were spread before the royal and princely guests of Saladin, each in their own separate pavilion; and so attentive was the Soldan to the habits and taste of his visitors, that Grecian slaves were stationed to present them with the goblet, which is the abomination of the sect of Mohammed. Ere Richard had finished his meal, the ancient Omrah, who had brought the Soldan’s letter to the Christian camp, entered with a plan of the ceremonial to be observed on the succeeding day of combat. Richard, who knew the taste of his old acquaintance, invited him to pledge him in a flagon of wine of Shiraz; but Abdallah gave him to understand, with a rueful aspect, that self-denial in the present circumstances was a matter in which his life was concerned, for that Saladin, tolerant in many respects, both observed and enforced by high penalties the laws of the Prophet.

“Nay, then,” said Richard, “if he loves not wine, that lightener of the human heart, his conversion is not to be hoped for, and the prediction of the mad priest of Engaddi goes like chaff down the wind.”

The King then addressed himself to settle the articles of combat, which cost a considerable time, as it was necessary on some points to consult with the opposite parties, as well as with the Soldan.

They were at length finally agreed upon, and adjusted by a protocol in French and in Arabian, which was subscribed by Saladin as umpire of the field, and by Richard and Leopold as guarantees for the two combatants. As the Omrah took his final leave of King Richard for the evening, De Vaux entered.

“The good knight,” he said, “who is to do battle tomorrow requests to know whether he may not to-night pay duty to his royal godfather!”

“Hast thou seen him, De Vaux?” said the King, smiling; “and didst thou know an ancient acquaintance?”

“By our Lady of Lanercost,” answered De Vaux, “there are so many surprises and changes in this land that my poor brain turns. I scarce knew Sir Kenneth of Scotland, till his good hound, that had been for a short while under my care, came and fawned on me; and even then I only knew the tyke by the depth of his chest, the roundness of his foot, and his manner of baying, for the poor gazehound was painted like any Venetian courtesan.”

“Thou art better skilled in brutes than men, De Vaux,” said the King.

“I will not deny,” said De Vaux, “I have found them ofttimes the honester animals. Also, your Grace is pleased to term me sometimes a brute myself; besides that, I serve the Lion, whom all men acknowledge the king of brutes.”

“By Saint George, there thou brokest thy lance fairly on my brow,” said the King. “I have ever said thou hast a sort of wit, De Vaux; marry, one must strike thee with a sledge-hammer ere it can be made to sparkle. But to the present gear — is the good knight well armed and equipped?”

“Fully, my liege, and nobly,” answered De Vaux. “I know the armour well; it is that which the Venetian commissary offered your highness, just ere you became ill, for five hundred byzants.”

“And he hath sold it to the infidel Soldan, I warrant me, for a few ducats more, and present payment. These Venetians would sell the Sepulchre itself!”

“The armour will never be borne in a nobler cause,” said De Vaux.

“Thanks to the nobleness of the Saracen,” said the King, “not to the avarice of the Venetians.”

“I would to God your Grace would be more cautious,” said the anxious De Vaux. “Here are we deserted by all our allies, for points of offence given to one or another; we cannot hope to prosper upon the land; and we have only to quarrel with the amphibious republic, to lose the means of retreat by sea!”

“I will take care,” said Richard impatiently; “but school me no more. Tell me rather, for it is of interest, hath the knight a confessor?”

“He hath,” answered De Vaux; “the hermit of Engaddi. who erst did him that office when preparing for death, attends him on the present occasion, the fame of the duel having brought him hither.”

“’Tis well,” said Richard; “and now for the knight’s request. Say to him, Richard will receive him when the discharge of his devoir beside the Diamond of the Desert shall have atoned for his fault beside the Mount of Saint George; and as thou passest through the camp, let the Queen know I will visit her pavilion — and tell Blondel to meet me there.”

De Vaux departed, and in about an hour afterwards, Richard, wrapping his mantle around him, and taking his ghittern in his hand, walked in the direction of the Queen’s pavilion. Several Arabs passed him, but always with averted heads and looks fixed upon the earth, though he could observe that all gazed earnestly after him when he was past. This led him justly to conjecture that his person was known to them; but that either the Soldan’s commands, or their own Oriental politeness, forbade them to seem to notice a sovereign who desired to remain incognito.

When the King reached the pavilion of his Queen he found it guarded by those unhappy officials whom Eastern jealousy places around the zenana. Blondel was walking before the door, and touched his rote from time to time in a manner which made the Africans show their ivory teeth, and bear burden with their strange gestures and shrill, unnatural voices.

“What art thou after with this herd of black cattle, Blondel?” said the King; “wherefore goest thou not into the tent?”

“Because my trade can neither spare the head nor the fingers,” said Blondel, “and these honest blackamoors threatened to cut me joint from joint if I pressed forward.”

“Well, enter with me,” said the King, “and I will be thy safeguard.”

The blacks accordingly lowered pikes and swords to King Richard, and bent their eyes on the ground, as if unworthy to look upon him. In the interior of the pavilion they found Thomas de Vaux in attendance on the Queen. While Berengaria welcomed Blondel, King Richard spoke for some time secretly and apart with his fair kinswoman.

At length, “Are we still foes, my fair Edith?” he said, in a whisper.

“No, my liege,” said Edith, in a voice just so low as not to interrupt the music; “none can bear enmity against King Richard when he deigns to show himself, as he really is, generous and noble, as well as valiant and honourable.”

So saying, she extended her hand to him. The King kissed it in token of reconciliation, and then proceeded.

“You think, my sweet cousin, that my anger in this matter was feigned; but you are deceived. The punishment I inflicted upon this knight was just; for he had betrayed — no matter for how tempting a bribe, fair cousin — the trust committed to him. But I rejoice, perchance as much as you, that tomorrow gives him a chance to win the field, and throw back the stain which for a time clung to him upon the actual thief and traitor. No! — future times may blame Richard for impetuous folly, but they shall say that in rendering judgment he was just when he should and merciful when he could.”

“Laud not thyself, cousin King,” said Edith. “They may call thy justice cruelty, thy mercy caprice.”

“And do not thou pride thyself,” said the King, “as if thy knight, who hath not yet buckled on his armour, were unbelting it in triumph — Conrade of Montserrat is held a good lance. What if the Scot should lose the day?”

“It is impossible!” said Edith firmly. “My own eyes saw yonder Conrade tremble and change colour like a base thief; he is guilty, and the trial by combat is an appeal to the justice of God. I myself, in such a cause, would encounter him without fear.”

“By the mass, I think thou wouldst, wench,” said the King, “and beat him to boot, for there never breathed a truer Plantagenet than thou.”

He paused, and added in a very serious tone, “See that thou continue to remember what is due to thy birth.”

“What means that advice, so seriously given at this moment?” said Edith. “Am I of such light nature as to forget my name — my condition?”

“I will speak plainly, Edith,” answered the King, “and as to a friend. What will this knight be to you, should he come off victor from yonder lists?”

“To me?” said Edith, blushing deep with shame and displeasure. “What can he be to me more than an honoured knight, worthy of such grace as Queen Berengaria might confer on him, had he selected her for his lady, instead of a more unworthy choice? The meanest knight may devote himself to the service of an empress, but the glory of his choice,” she said proudly, “must be his reward.”

“Yet he hath served and suffered much for you,” said the King.

“I have paid his services with honour and applause, and his sufferings with tears,” answered Edith. “Had he desired other reward, he would have done wisely to have bestowed his affections within his own degree.”

“You would not, then, wear the bloody night-gear for his sake?” said King Richard.

“No more,” answered Edith, “than I would have required him to expose his life by an action in which there was more madness than honour.”

“Maidens talk ever thus,” said the King; “but when the favoured lover presses his suit, she says, with a sigh, her stars had decreed otherwise.”

“Your Grace has now, for the second time, threatened me with the influence of my horoscope,” Edith replied, with dignity. “Trust me, my liege, whatever be the power of the stars, your poor kinswoman will never wed either infidel or obscure adventurer. Permit me that I listen to the music of Blondel, for the tone of your royal admonitions is scarce so grateful to the ear.”

The conclusion of the evening offered nothing worthy of notice.

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The Talisman by Sir Walter Scott Chapter 25

Yet this inconstancy is such,

As thou, too, shalt adore;

I could not love thee, love so much,

Loved I not honour more.

MONTROSE’S LINES.

When King Richard returned to his tent, he commanded the Nubian to be brought before him. He entered with his usual ceremonial reverence, and having prostrated himself, remained standing before the King in the attitude of a slave awaiting the orders of his master. It was perhaps well for him that the preservation of his character required his eyes to be fixed on the ground, since the keen glance with which Richard for some time surveyed him in silence would, if fully encountered, have been difficult to sustain.

“Thou canst well of woodcraft,” said the King, after a pause, “and hast started thy game and brought him to bay as ably as if Tristrem himself had taught thee. [A universal tradition ascribed to Sir Tristrem, famous for his love of the fair Queen Yseult, the laws concerning the practice of woodcraft, or VENERIE, as it was called, being those that related to the rules of the chase, which were deemed of much consequence during the Middle Ages.] But this is not all — he must be brought down at force. I myself would have liked to have levelled my hunting-spear at him. There are, it seems, respects which prevent this. Thou art about to return to the camp of the Soldan, bearing a letter, requiring of his courtesy to appoint neutral ground for the deed of chivalry, and should it consist with his pleasure, to concur with us in witnessing it. Now, speaking conjecturally, we think thou mightst find in that camp some cavalier who, for the love of truth and his own augmentation of honour, will do battle with this same traitor of Montserrat.”

The Nubian raised his eyes and fixed them on the King with a look of eager ardour; then raised them to Heaven with such solemn gratitude that the water soon glistened in them; then bent his head, as affirming what Richard desired, and resumed his usual posture of submissive attention.

“It is well,” said the King; “and I see thy desire to oblige me in this matter. And herein, I must needs say, lies the excellence of such a servant as thou, who hast not speech either to debate our purpose or to require explanation of what we have determined. An English serving man in thy place had given me his dogged advice to trust the combat with some good lance of my household, who, from my brother Longsword downwards, are all on fire to do battle in my cause; and a chattering Frenchman had made a thousand attempts to discover wherefore I look for a champion from the camp of the infidels. But thou, my silent agent, canst do mine errand without questioning or comprehending it; with thee to hear is to obey.”

A bend of the body and a genuflection were the appropriate answer of the Ethiopian to these observations.

“And now to another point,” said the King, and speaking suddenly and rapidly —“have you yet seen Edith Plantagenet?”

The mute looked up as in the act of being about to speak — nay, his lips had begun to utter a distinct negative — when the abortive attempt died away in the imperfect murmurs of the dumb.

“Why, lo you there!” said the King, “the very sound of the name of a royal maiden of beauty so surpassing as that of our lovely cousin seems to have power enough well-nigh to make the dumb speak. What miracles then might her eye work upon such a subject! I will make the experiment, friend slave. Thou shalt see this choice beauty of our Court, and do the errand of the princely Soldan.”

Again a joyful glance — again a genuflection — but, as he arose, the King laid his hand heavily on his shoulder, and proceeded with stern gravity thus: “Let me in one thing warn you, my sable envoy. Even if thou shouldst feel that the kindly influence of her whom thou art soon to behold should loosen the bonds of thy tongue, presently imprisoned, as the good Soldan expresses it, within the ivory walls of its castle, beware how thou changest thy taciturn character, or speakest a word in her presence, even if thy powers of utterance were to be miraculously restored. Believe me that I should have thy tongue extracted by the roots, and its ivory palace — that is, I presume, its range of teeth — drawn out one by one. Wherefore, be wise and silent still.”

The Nubian, so soon as the King had removed his heavy grasp from his shoulder, bent his head, and laid his hand on his lips, in token of silent obedience.

But Richard again laid his hand on him more gently, and added, “This behest we lay on thee as on a slave. Wert thou knight and gentleman, we would require thine honour in pledge of thy silence, which is one especial condition of our present trust.”

The Ethiopian raised his body proudly, looked full at the King, and laid his right hand on his heart.

Richard then summoned his chamberlain.

“Go, Neville,” he said, “with this slave to the tent of our royal consort, and say it is our pleasure that he have an audience — a private audience — of our cousin Edith. He is charged with a commission to her. Thou canst show him the way also, in case he requires thy guidance, though thou mayst have observed it is wonderful how familiar he already seems to be with the purlieus of our camp. — And thou, too, friend Ethiop,” the King continued, “what thou dost do quickly, and return hither within the half-hour.”

“I stand discovered,” thought the seeming Nubian, as, with downcast looks and folded arms, he followed the hasty stride of Neville towards the tent of Queen Berengaria —“I stand undoubtedly discovered and unfolded to King Richard; yet I cannot perceive that his resentment is hot against me. If I understand his words — and surely it is impossible to misinterpret them — he gives me a noble chance of redeeming my honour upon the crest of this false Marquis, whose guilt I read in his craven eye and quivering lip when the charge was made against him. — Roswal, faithfully hast thou served thy master, and most dearly shall thy wrong be avenged! — But what is the meaning of my present permission to look upon her whom I had despaired ever to see again? And why, or how, can the royal Plantagenet consent that I should see his divine kinswoman, either as the messenger of the heathen Saladin, or as the guilty exile whom he so lately expelled from his camp — his audacious avowal of the affection which is his pride being the greatest enhancement of his guilt? That Richard should consent to her receiving a letter from an infidel lover by the hands of one of such disproportioned rank are either of them circumstances equally incredible, and, at the same time, inconsistent with each other. But Richard, when unmoved by his heady passions, is liberal, generous, and truly noble; and as such I will deal with him, and act according to his instructions, direct or implied, seeking to know no more than may gradually unfold itself without my officious inquiry. To him who has given me so brave an opportunity to vindicate my tarnished honour, I owe acquiescence and obedience; and painful as it may be, the debt shall be paid. And yet”— thus the proud swelling of his heart further suggested —“Coeur de Lion, as he is called, might have measured the feelings of others by his own. I urge an address to his kinswoman! I, who never spoke word to her when I took a royal prize from her hand — when I was accounted not the lowest in feats of chivalry among the defenders of the Cross! I approach her when in a base disguise, and in a servile habit — and, alas! when my actual condition is that of a slave, with a spot of dishonour on that which was once my shield! I do this! He little knows me. Yet I thank him for the opportunity which may make us all better acquainted with each other.”

As he arrived at this conclusion, they paused before the entrance of the Queen’s pavilion.

They were of course admitted by the guards, and Neville, leaving the Nubian in a small apartment, or antechamber, which was but too well remembered by him, passed into that which was used as the Queen’s presence-chamber. He communicated his royal master’s pleasure in a low and respectful tone of voice, very different from the bluntness of Thomas de Vaux, to whom Richard was everything and the rest of the Court, including Berengaria herself, was nothing. A burst of laughter followed the communication of his errand.

“And what like is the Nubian slave who comes ambassador on such an errand from the Soldan? — a negro, De Neville, is he not?” said a female voice, easily recognized for that of Berengaria. “A negro, is he not, De Neville, with black skin, a head curled like a ram’s, a flat nose, and blubber lips — ha, worthy Sir Henry?”

“Let not your Grace forget the shin-bones,” said another voice, “bent outwards like the edge of a Saracen scimitar.”

“Rather like the bow of a Cupid, since he comes upon a lover’s errand,” said the Queen. —“Gentle Neville, thou art ever prompt to pleasure us poor women, who have so little to pass away our idle moments. We must see this messenger of love. Turks and Moors have I seen many, but negro never.”

“I am created to obey your Grace’s commands, so you will bear me out with my Sovereign for doing so,” answered the debonair knight. “Yet, let me assure your Grace you will see something different from what you expect.”

“So much the better — uglier yet than our imaginations can fancy, yet the chosen love-messenger of this gallant Soldan!”

“Gracious madam,” said the Lady Calista, “may I implore you would permit the good knight to carry this messenger straight to the Lady Edith, to whom his credentials are addressed? We have already escaped hardly for such a frolic.”

“Escaped?” repeated the Queen scornfully. “Yet thou mayest be right, Calista, in thy caution. Let this Nubian, as thou callest him, first do his errand to our cousin — besides, he is mute too, is he not?”

“He is, gracious madam,” answered the knight.

“Royal sport have these Eastern ladies,” said Berengaria, “attended by those before whom they may say anything, yet who can report nothing. Whereas in our camp, as the Prelate of Saint Jude’s is wont to say, a bird of the air will carry the matter.”

“Because,” said De Neville, “your Grace forgets that you speak within canvas walls.”

The voices sunk on this observation, and after a little whispering, the English knight again returned to the Ethiopian, and made him a sign to follow. He did so, and Neville conducted him to a pavilion, pitched somewhat apart from that of the Queen, for the accommodation, it seemed, of the Lady Edith and her attendants. One of her Coptic maidens received the message communicated by Sir Henry Neville, and in the space of a very few minutes the Nubian was ushered into Edith’s presence, while Neville was left on the outside of the tent. The slave who introduced him withdrew on a signal from her mistress, and it was with humiliation, not of the posture only but of the very inmost soul, that the unfortunate knight, thus strangely disguised, threw himself on one knee, with looks bent on the ground and arms folded on his bosom, like a criminal who expects his doom. Edith was clad in the same manner as when she received King Richard, her long, transparent dark veil hanging around her like the shade of a summer night on a beautiful landscape, disguising and rendering obscure the beauties which it could not hide. She held in her hand a silver lamp, fed with some aromatic spirit, which burned with unusual brightness.

When Edith came within a step of the kneeling and motionless slave, she held the light towards his face, as if to peruse his features more attentively, then turned from him, and placed her lamp so as to throw the shadow of his face in profile upon the curtain which hung beside. She at length spoke in a voice composed, yet deeply sorrowful,

“Is it you? It is indeed you, brave Knight of the Leopard — gallant Sir Kenneth of Scotland; is it indeed you? — thus servilely disguised — thus surrounded by a hundred dangers.”

At hearing the tones of his lady’s voice thus unexpectedly addressed to him, and in a tone of compassion approaching to tenderness, a corresponding reply rushed to the knight’s lips, and scarce could Richard’s commands and his own promised silence prevent his answering that the sight he saw, the sounds he just heard, were sufficient to recompense the slavery of a life, and dangers which threatened that life every hour. He did recollect himself, however, and a deep and impassioned sigh was his only reply to the high-born Edith’s question.

“I see — I know I have guessed right,” continued Edith. “I marked you from your first appearance near the platform on which I stood with the Queen. I knew, too, your valiant hound. She is no true lady, and is unworthy of the service of such a knight as thou art, from whom disguises of dress or hue could conceal a faithful servant. Speak, then, without fear to Edith Plantagenet. She knows how to grace in adversity the good knight who served, honoured, and did deeds of arms in her name, when fortune befriended him. — Still silent! Is it fear or shame that keeps thee so! Fear should be unknown to thee; and for shame, let it remain with those who have wronged thee.”

The knight, in despair at being obliged to play the mute in an interview so interesting, could only express his mortification by sighing deeply, and laying his finger upon his lips. Edith stepped back, as if somewhat displeased.

What!” she said, “the Asiatic mute in very deed, as well as in attire? This I looked not for. Or thou mayest scorn me, perhaps, for thus boldly acknowledging that I have heedfully observed the homage thou hast paid me? Hold no unworthy thoughts of Edith on that account. She knows well the bounds which reserve and modesty prescribe to high-born maidens, and she knows when and how far they should give place to gratitude — to a sincere desire that it were in her power to repay services and repair injuries arising from the devotion which a good knight bore towards her. Why fold thy hands together, and wring them with so much passion? Can it be,” she added, shrinking back at the idea, “that their cruelty has actually deprived thee of speech? Thou shakest thy head. Be it a spell — be it obstinacy, I question thee no further, but leave thee to do thine errand after thine own fashion. I also can be mute.”

The disguised knight made an action as if at once lamenting his own condition and deprecating her displeasure, while at the same time he presented to her, wrapped, as usual, in fine silk and cloth of gold, the letter of the Soldan. She took it, surveyed it carelessly, then laid it aside, and bending her eyes once more on the knight, she said in a low tone, “Not even a word to do thine errand to me?”

He pressed both his hands to his brow, as if to intimate the pain which he felt at being unable to obey her; but she turned from him in anger.

“Begone!” she said. “I have spoken enough — too much — to one who will not waste on me a word in reply. Begone! — and say, if I have wronged thee, I have done penance; for if I have been the unhappy means of dragging thee down from a station of honour, I have, in this interview, forgotten my own worth, and lowered myself in thy eyes and in my own.”

She covered her eyes with her hands, and seemed deeply agitated. Sir Kenneth would have approached, but she waved him back.

“Stand off! thou whose soul Heaven hath suited to its new station! Aught less dull and fearful than a slavish mute had spoken a word of gratitude, were it but to reconcile me to my own degradation. Why pause you? — begone!”

The disguised knight almost involuntarily looked towards the letter as an apology for protracting his stay. She snatched it up, saying in a tone of irony and contempt, “I had forgotten — the dutiful slave waits an answer to his message. How’s this — from the Soldan!”

She hastily ran over the contents, which were expressed both in Arabic and French, and when she had done, she laughed in bitter anger.

“Now this passes imagination!” she said; “no jongleur can show so deft a transmutation! His legerdemain can transform zechins and byzants into doits and maravedis; but can his art convert a Christian knight, ever esteemed among the bravest of the Holy Crusade, into the dust-kissing slave of a heathen Soldan — the bearer of a paynim’s insolent proposals to a Christian maiden — nay, forgetting the laws of honourable chivalry, as well as of religion? But it avails not talking to the willing slave of a heathen hound. Tell your master, when his scourge shall have found thee a tongue, that which thou hast seen me do”— so saying, she threw the Soldan’s letter on the ground, and placed her foot upon it —“and say to him, that Edith Plantagenet scorns the homage of an unchristened pagan.”

With these words she was about to shoot from the knight, when, kneeling at her feet in bitter agony, he ventured to lay his hand upon her robe and oppose her departure.

“Heard’st thou not what I said, dull slave?” she said, turning short round on him, and speaking with emphasis. “Tell the heathen Soldan, thy master, that I scorn his suit as much as I despise the prostration of a worthless renegade to religion and chivalry — to God and to his lady!”

So saying, she burst from him, tore her garment from his grasp, and left the tent.

The voice of Neville, at the same time, summoned him from without. Exhausted and stupefied by the distress he had undergone during this interview, from which he could only have extricated himself by breach of the engagement which he had formed with King Richard, the unfortunate knight staggered rather than walked after the English baron, till they reached the royal pavilion, before which a party of horsemen had just dismounted. There were light and motion within the tent, and when Neville entered with his disguised attendant, they found the King, with several of his nobility, engaged in welcoming those who were newly arrived.

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The Talisman by Sir Walter Scott Chapter 26

“The tears I shed must ever fall.

I weep not for an absent swain;

For time may happier hours recall,

And parted lovers meet again.

“I weep not for the silent dead.

Their pains are past, their sorrows o’er;

And those that loved their steps must tread,

When death shall join to part no more.”

But worse than absence, worse than death,

She wept her lover’s sullied fame,

And, fired with all the pride of birth,

She wept a soldier’s injured name.

BALLAD.

The frank and bold voice of Richard was heard in joyous gratulation.

“Thomas de Vaux! stout Tom of the Gills! by the head of King Henry, thou art welcome to me as ever was flask of wine to a jolly toper! I should scarce have known how to order my battle-array, unless I had thy bulky form in mine eye as a landmark to form my ranks upon. We shall have blows anon, Thomas, if the saints be gracious to us; and had we fought in thine absence, I would have looked to hear of thy being found hanging upon an elder-tree.”

“I should have borne my disappointment with more Christian patience, I trust,” said Thomas de Vaux, “than to have died the death of an apostate. But I thank your Grace for my welcome, which is the more generous, as it respects a banquet of blows, of which, saving your pleasure, you are ever too apt to engross the larger share. But here have I brought one to whom your Grace will, I know, give a yet warmer welcome.”

The person who now stepped forward to make obeisance to Richard was a young man of low stature and slight form. His dress was as modest as his figure was unimpressive; but he bore on his bonnet a gold buckle, with a gem, the lustre of which could only be rivalled by the brilliancy of the eye which the bonnet shaded. It was the only striking feature in his countenance; but when once noticed, it ever made a strong impression on the spectator. About his neck there hung in a scarf of sky-blue silk a WREST as it was called — that is, the key with which a harp is tuned, and which was of solid gold.

This personage would have kneeled reverently to Richard, but the Monarch raised him in joyful haste, pressed him to his bosom warmly, and kissed him on either side of the face.

“Blondel de Nesle!” he exclaimed joyfully —“welcome from Cyprus, my king of minstrels! — welcome to the King of England, who rates not his own dignity more highly than he does thine. I have been sick, man, and, by my soul, I believe it was for lack of thee; for, were I half way to the gate of heaven, methinks thy strains could call me back. And what news, my gentle master, from the land of the lyre? Anything fresh from the TROUVEURS of Provence? Anything from the minstrels of merry Normandy? Above all, hast thou thyself been busy? But I need not ask thee — thou canst not be idle if thou wouldst; thy noble qualities are like a fire burning within, and compel thee to pour thyself out in music and song.”

“Something I have learned, and something I have done, noble King,” answered the celebrated Blondel, with a retiring modesty which all Richard’s enthusiastic admiration of his skill had been unable to banish.

“We will hear thee, man — we will hear thee instantly,” said the King. Then, touching Blondel’s shoulder kindly, he added, “That is, if thou art not fatigued with thy journey; for I would sooner ride my best horse to death than injure a note of thy voice.”

“My voice is, as ever, at the service of my royal patron,” said Blondel; “but your Majesty,” he added, looking at some papers on the table, “seems more importantly engaged, and the hour waxes late.”

“Not a whit, man, not a whit, my dearest Blondel. I did but sketch an array of battle against the Saracens, a thing of a moment, almost as soon done as the routing of them.”

“Methinks, however,” said Thomas de Vaux, “it were not unfit to inquire what soldiers your Grace hath to array. I bring reports on that subject from Ascalon.”

“Thou art a mule, Thomas,” said the King —“a very mule for dullness and obstinacy! Come, nobles — a hall — a hall — range ye around him! Give Blondel the tabouret. Where is his harp-bearer? — or, soft, lend him my harp, his own may be damaged by the journey.”

“I would your Grace would take my report,” said Thomas de Vaux. “I have ridden far, and have more list to my bed than to have my ears tickled.”

“THY ears tickled!” said the King; “that must be with a woodcock’s feather, and not with sweet sounds. Hark thee, Thomas, do thine ears know the singing of Blondel from the braying of an ass?”

“In faith, my liege,” replied Thomas, “I cannot well say; but setting Blondel out of the question, who is a born gentleman, and doubtless of high acquirements, I shall never, for the sake of your Grace’s question, look on a minstrel but I shall think upon an ass.”

“And might not your manners,” said Richard, “have excepted me, who am a gentleman born as well as Blondel, and, like him, a guild-brother of the joyeuse science?”

“Your Grace should remember,” said De Vaux, smiling, “that ’tis useless asking for manners from a mule.”

“Most truly spoken,” said the King; “and an ill-conditioned animal thou art. But come hither, master mule, and be unloaded, that thou mayest get thee to thy litter, without any music being wasted on thee. Meantime do thou, good brother of Salisbury, go to our consort’s tent, and tell her that Blondel has arrived, with his budget fraught with the newest minstrelsy. Bid her come hither instantly, and do thou escort her, and see that our cousin, Edith Plantagenet, remain not behind.”

His eye then rested for a moment on the Nubian, with that expression of doubtful meaning which his countenance usually displayed when he looked at him.

“Ha, our silent and secret messenger returned? — Stand up, slave, behind the back of De Neville, and thou shalt hear presently sounds which will make thee bless God that He afflicted thee rather with dumbness than deafness.”

So saying, he turned from the rest of the company towards De Vaux, and plunged instantly into the military details which that baron laid before him.

About the time that the Lord of Gilsland had finished his audience, a messenger announced that the Queen and her attendants were approaching the royal tent. —“A flask of wine, ho!” said the King; “of old King Isaac’s long-saved Cyprus, which we won when we stormed Famagosta. Fill to the stout Lord of Gilsland, gentles — a more careful and faithful servant never had any prince.”

“I am glad,” said Thomas de Vaux, “that your Grace finds the mule a useful slave, though his voice be less musical than horse-hair or wire.”

“What, thou canst not yet digest that quip of the mule?” said Richard. “Wash it down with a brimming flagon, man, or thou wilt choke upon it. Why, so — well pulled! — and now I will tell thee, thou art a soldier as well as I, and we must brook each other’s jests in the hall as each other’s blows in the tourney, and love each other the harder we hit. By my faith, if thou didst not hit me as hard as I did thee in our late encounter! thou gavest all thy wit to the thrust. But here lies the difference betwixt thee and Blondel. Thou art but my comrade — I might say my pupil — in the art of war; Blondel is my master in the science of minstrelsy and music. To thee I permit the freedom of intimacy; to him I must do reverence, as to my superior in his art. Come, man, be not peevish, but remain and hear our glee.”

“To see your Majesty in such cheerful mood,” said the Lord of Gilsland, “by my faith, I could remain till Blondel had achieved the great romance of King Arthur, which lasts for three days.”

“We will not tax your patience so deeply,” said the King. “But see, yonder glare of torches without shows that our consort approaches. Away to receive her, man, and win thyself grace in the brightest eyes of Christendom. Nay, never stop to adjust thy cloak. See, thou hast let Neville come between the wind and the sails of thy galley.”

“He was never before me in the field of battle,” said De Vaux, not greatly pleased to see himself anticipated by the more active service of the chamberlain.

“No, neither he nor any one went before thee there, my good Tom of the Gills,” said the King, “unless it was ourself, now and then.”

“Ay, my liege,” said De Vaux, “and let us do justice to the unfortunate. The unhappy Knight of the Leopard hath been before me too, at a season; for, look you, he weighs less on horseback, and so —”

“Hush!” said the King, interrupting him in a peremptory tone, “not a word of him,” and instantly stepped forward to greet his royal consort; and when he had done so, he presented to her Blondel, as king of minstrelsy and his master in the gay science. Berengaria, who well knew that her royal husband’s passion for poetry and music almost equalled his appetite for warlike fame, and that Blondel was his especial favourite, took anxious care to receive him with all the flattering distinctions due to one whom the King delighted to honour. Yet it was evident that, though Blondel made suitable returns to the compliments showered on him something too abundantly by the royal beauty, he owned with deeper reverence and more humble gratitude the simple and graceful welcome of Edith, whose kindly greeting appeared to him, perhaps, sincere in proportion to its brevity and simplicity.

Both the Queen and her royal husband were aware of this distinction, and Richard, seeing his consort somewhat piqued at the preference assigned to his cousin, by which perhaps he himself did not feel much gratified, said in the hearing of both, “We minstrels, Berengaria, as thou mayest see by the bearing of our master Blondel, pay more reverence to a severe judge like our kinswoman than to a kindly, partial friend like thyself, who is willing to take our worth upon trust.”

Edith was moved by this sarcasm of her royal kinsman, and hesitated not to reply that, “To be a harsh and severe judge was not an attribute proper to her alone of all the Plantagenets.”

She had perhaps said more, having some touch of the temper of that house, which, deriving their name and cognizance from the lowly broom (PLANTA GENISTA), assumed as an emblem of humility, were perhaps one of the proudest families that ever ruled in England; but her eye, when kindling in her reply, suddenly caught those of the Nubian, although he endeavoured to conceal himself behind the nobles who were present, and she sunk upon a seat, turning so pale that Queen Berengaria deemed herself obliged to call for water and essences, and to go through the other ceremonies appropriate to a lady’s swoon. Richard, who better estimated Edith’s strength of mind, called to Blondel to assume his seat and commence his lay, declaring that minstrelsy was worth every other recipe to recall a Plantagenet to life. “Sing us,” he said, “that song of the Bloody Vest, of which thou didst formerly give me the argument ere I left Cyprus. Thou must be perfect in it by this time, or, as our yeomen say, thy bow is broken.”

The anxious eye of the minstrel, however, dwelt on Edith, and it was not till he observed her returning colour that he obeyed the repeated commands of the King. Then, accompanying his voice with the harp, so as to grace, but yet not drown, the sense of what he sung, he chanted in a sort of recitative one of those ancient adventures of love and knighthood which were wont of yore to win the public attention. So soon as he began to prelude, the insignificance of his personal appearance seemed to disappear, and his countenance glowed with energy and inspiration. His full, manly, mellow voice, so absolutely under command of the purest taste, thrilled on every ear and to every heart. Richard, rejoiced as after victory, called out the appropriate summons for silence,

“Listen, lords, in bower and hall;”

while, with the zeal of a patron at once and a pupil, he arranged the circle around, and hushed them into silence; and he himself sat down with an air of expectation and interest, not altogether unmixed with the gravity of the professed critic. The courtiers turned their eyes on the King, that they might be ready to trace and imitate the emotions his features should express, and Thomas de Vaux yawned tremendously, as one who submitted unwillingly to a wearisome penance. The song of Blondel was of course in the Norman language, but the verses which follow express its meaning and its manner.

The Bloody Vest.

’Twas near the fair city of Benevent,

When the sun was setting on bough and bent,

And knights were preparing in bower and tent,

On the eve of the Baptist’s tournament;

When in Lincoln green a stripling gent,

Well seeming a page by a princess sent,

Wander’d the camp, and, still as he went,

Inquired for the Englishman, Thomas a Kent.

Far hath he far’d, and farther must fare,

Till he finds his pavilion nor stately nor rare —

Little save iron and steel was there;

And, as lacking the coin to pay armourer’s care,

With his sinewy arms to the shoulders bare,

The good knight with hammer and file did repair

The mail that tomorrow must see him wear,

For the honour of Saint John and his lady fair.

“Thus speaks my lady,” the page said he,

And the knight bent lowly both head and knee,

“She is Benevent’s Princess so high in degree,

And thou art as lowly as knight may well be —

He that would climb so lofty a tree,

Or spring such a gulf as divides her from thee,

Must dare some high deed, by which all men may see

His ambition is back’d by his hie chivalrie.

“Therefore thus speaks my lady,” the fair page he said,

And the knight lowly louted with hand and with head,

“Fling aside the good armour in which thou art clad,

And don thou this weed of her night-gear instead,

For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread;

And charge, thus attir’d, in the tournament dread,

And fight as thy wont is where most blood is shed,

And bring honour away, or remain with the dead.”

Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in his breast,

The knight the weed hath taken, and reverently hath kiss’d.

“Now blessed be the moment, the messenger be blest!

Much honour’d do I hold me in my lady’s high behest;

And say unto my lady, in this dear night-weed dress’d,

To the best armed champion I will not veil my crest;

But if I live and bear me well ’tis her turn to take the test.”

Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of the Lay of the Bloody Vest.

“Thou hast changed the measure upon us unawares in that last couplet, my Blondel,” said the King.

“Most true, my lord,” said Blondel. “I rendered the verses from the Italian of an old harper whom I met in Cyprus, and not having had time either to translate it accurately or commit it to memory, I am fain to supply gaps in the music and the verse as I can upon the spur of the moment, as you see boors mend a quickset fence with a fagot.”

“Nay, on my faith,” said the King, “I like these rattling, rolling Alexandrines. Methinks they come more twangingly off to the music than that briefer measure.”

“Both are licensed, as is well known to your Grace,” answered Blondel.

“They are so, Blondel,” said Richard, “yet methinks the scene where there is like to be fighting will go best on in these same thundering Alexandrines, which sound like the charge of cavalry, while the other measure is but like the sidelong amble of a lady’s palfrey.”

“It shall be as your Grace pleases,” replied Blondel, and began again to prelude.

“Nay, first cherish thy fancy with a cup of fiery Chios wine,” said the King. “And hark thee, I would have thee fling away that new-fangled restriction of thine, of terminating in accurate and similar rhymes. They are a constraint on thy flow of fancy, and make thee resemble a man dancing in fetters.”

“The fetters are easily flung off, at least,” said Blondel, again sweeping his fingers over the strings, as one who would rather have played than listened to criticism.

“But why put them on, man?” continued the King. “Wherefore thrust thy genius into iron bracelets? I marvel how you got forward at all. I am sure I should not have been able to compose a stanza in yonder hampered measure.”

Blondel looked down, and busied himself with the strings of his harp, to hide an involuntary smile which crept over his features; but it escaped not Richard’s observation.

“By my faith, thou laughest at me, Blondel,” he said; “and, in good truth, every man deserves it who presumes to play the master when he should be the pupil. But we kings get bad habits of self-opinion. Come, on with thy lay, dearest Blondel — on after thine own fashion, better than aught that we can suggest, though we must needs be talking.”

Blondel resumed the lay; but as extemporaneous composition was familiar to him, he failed not to comply with the King’s hints, and was perhaps not displeased to show with how much ease he could new-model a poem, even while in the act of recitation.

THE BLOODY VEST.

FYTTE SECOND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall where he stood, Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of mood: “The blood that I lost for this daughter of thine, I pour’d forth as freely as flask gives its wine; And if for my sake she brooks penance and blame, Do not doubt I will save her from suffering and shame; And light will she reck of thy princedom and rent, When I hail her, in England, the Countess of Kent,”

A murmur of applause ran through the assembly, following the example of Richard himself, who loaded with praises his favourite minstrel, and ended by presenting him with a ring of considerable value. The Queen hastened to distinguish the favourite by a rich bracelet, and many of the nobles who were present followed the royal example.

“Is our cousin Edith,” said the King, “become insensible to the sound of the harp she once loved?”

“She thanks Blondel for his lay,” replied Edith, “but doubly the kindness of the kinsman who suggested it.”

“Thou art angry, cousin,” said the King; “angry because thou hast heard of a woman more wayward than thyself. But you escape me not. I will walk a space homeward with you towards the Queen’s pavilion. We must have conference together ere the night has waned into morning.”

The Queen and her attendants were now on foot, and the other guests withdrew from the royal tent. A train with blazing torches, and an escort of archers, awaited Berengaria without the pavilion, and she was soon on her way homeward. Richard, as he had proposed, walked beside his kinswoman, and compelled her to accept of his arm as her support, so that they could speak to each other without being overheard.

“What answer, then, am I to return to the noble Soldan?” said Richard. “The kings and princes are falling from me, Edith; this new quarrel hath alienated them once more. I would do something for the Holy Sepulchre by composition, if not by victory; and the chance of my doing this depends, alas, on the caprice of a woman. I would lay my single spear in the rest against ten of the best lances in Christendom, rather than argue with a wilful wench who knows not what is for her own good. What answer, coz, am I to return to the Soldan? It must be decisive.”

“Tell him,” said Edith, “that the poorest of the Plantagenets will rather wed with misery than with misbelief.”

“Shall I say with slavery, Edith?” said the King. “Methinks that is nearer thy thoughts.”

“There is no room,” said Edith, “for the suspicion you so grossly insinuate. Slavery of the body might have been pitied, but that of the soul is only to be despised. Shame to thee, King of merry England. Thou hast enthralled both the limbs and the spirit of a knight, one scarce less famed than thyself.”

“Should I not prevent my kinswoman from drinking poison, by sullying the vessel which contained it, if I saw no other means of disgusting her with the fatal liquor?” replied the King.

“It is thyself,” answered Edith, “that would press me to drink poison, because it is proffered in a golden chalice.”

“Edith,” said Richard, “I cannot force thy resolution; but beware you shut not the door which Heaven opens. The hermit of Engaddi — he whom Popes and Councils have regarded as a prophet — hath read in the stars that thy marriage shall reconcile me with a powerful enemy, and that thy husband shall be Christian, leaving thus the fairest ground to hope that the conversion of the Soldan, and the bringing in of the sons of Ishmael to the pale of the church, will be the consequence of thy wedding with Saladin. Come, thou must make some sacrifice rather than mar such happy prospects.”

“Men may sacrifice rams and goats,” said Edith, “but not honour and conscience. I have heard that it was the dishonour of a Christian maiden which brought the Saracens into Spain; the shame of another is no likely mode of expelling them from Palestine.”

“Dost thou call it shame to become an empress?” said the King.

“I call it shame and dishonour to profane a Christian sacrament by entering into it with an infidel whom it cannot bind; and I call it foul dishonour that I, the descendant of a Christian princess, should become of free will the head of a haram of heathen concubines.”

“Well, kinswoman,” said the King, after a pause, “I must not quarrel with thee, though I think thy dependent condition might have dictated more compliance.”

“My liege,” replied Edith, “your Grace hath worthily succeeded to all the wealth, dignity, and dominion of the House of Plantagenet — do not, therefore, begrudge your poor kinswoman some small share of their pride.”

“By my faith, wench,” said the King, “thou hast unhorsed me with that very word, so we will kiss and be friends. I will presently dispatch thy answer to Saladin. But after all, coz, were it not better to suspend your answer till you have seen him? Men say he is pre-eminently handsome.”

“There is no chance of our meeting, my lord,” said Edith.

“By Saint George, but there is next to a certainty of it,” said the King; “for Saladin will doubtless afford us a free field for the doing of this new battle of the Standard, and will witness it himself. Berengaria is wild to behold it also; and I dare be sworn not a feather of you, her companions and attendants, will remain behind — least of all thou thyself, fair coz. But come, we have reached the pavilion, and must part; not in unkindness thou, oh — nay, thou must seal it with thy lip as well as thy hand, sweet Edith — it is my right as a sovereign to kiss my pretty vassals.”

He embraced her respectfully and affectionately, and returned through the moonlit camp, humming to himself such snatches of Blondel’s lay as he could recollect.

On his arrival he lost no time in making up his dispatches for Saladin, and delivered them to the Nubian, with a charge to set out by peep of day on his return to the Soldan.

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The Talisman by Sir Walter Scott Chapter 24

A grain of dust

Soiling our cup, will make our sense reject

Fastidiously the draught which we did thirst for;

A rusted nail, placed near the faithful compass,

Will sway it from the truth, and wreck the argosy.

Even this small cause of anger and disgust

Will break the bonds of amity ‘mongst princes,

And wreck their noblest purposes.

THE CRUSADE.

The reader can now have little doubt who the Ethiopian slave really was, with what purpose he had sought Richard’s camp, and wherefore and with what hope he now stood close to the person of that Monarch, as, surrounded by his valiant peers of England and Normandy, Coeur de Lion stood on the summit of Saint George’s Mount, with the Banner of England by his side, borne by the most goodly person in the army, being his own natural brother, William with the Long Sword, Earl of Salisbury, the offspring of Henry the Second’s amour with the celebrated Rosamond of Woodstock.

From several expressions in the King’s conversation with Neville on the preceding day, the Nubian was left in anxious doubt whether his disguise had not been penetrated, especially as that the King seemed to be aware in what manner the agency of the dog was expected to discover the thief who stole the banner, although the circumstance of such an animal’s having been wounded on the occasion had been scarce mentioned in Richard’s presence. Nevertheless, as the King continued to treat him in no other manner than his exterior required, the Nubian remained uncertain whether he was or was not discovered, and determined not to throw his disguise aside voluntarily.

Meanwhile, the powers of the various Crusading princes, arrayed under their royal and princely leaders, swept in long order around the base of the little mound; and as those of each different country passed by, their commanders advanced a step or two up the hill, and made a signal of courtesy to Richard and to the Standard of England, “in sign of regard and amity,” as the protocol of the ceremony heedfully expressed it, “not of subjection or vassalage.” The spiritual dignitaries, who in those days veiled not their bonnets to created being, bestowed on the King and his symbol of command their blessing instead of rendering obeisance.

Thus the long files marched on, and, diminished as they were by so many causes, appeared still an iron host, to whom the conquest of Palestine might seem an easy task. The soldiers, inspired by the consciousness of united strength, sat erect in their steel saddles; while it seemed that the trumpets sounded more cheerfully shrill, and the steeds, refreshed by rest and provender, chafed on the bit, and trod the ground more proudly. On they passed, troop after troop, banners waving, spears glancing, plumes dancing, in long perspective — a host composed of different nations, complexions, languages, arms, and appearances, but all fired, for the time, with the holy yet romantic purpose of rescuing the distressed daughter of Zion from her thraldom, and redeeming the sacred earth, which more than mortal had trodden, from the yoke of the unbelieving pagan. And it must be owned that if, in other circumstances, the species of courtesy rendered to the King of England by so many warriors, from whom he claimed no natural allegiance, had in it something that might have been thought humiliating, yet the nature and cause of the war was so fitted to his pre-eminently chivalrous character and renowned feats in arms, that claims which might elsewhere have been urged were there forgotten, and the brave did willing homage to the bravest, in an expedition where the most undaunted and energetic courage was necessary to success.

The good King was seated on horseback about half way up the mount, a morion on his head, surmounted by a crown, which left his manly features exposed to public view, as, with cool and considerate eye, he perused each rank as it passed him, and returned the salutation of the leaders. His tunic was of sky-coloured velvet, covered with plates of silver, and his hose of crimson silk, slashed with cloth of gold. By his side stood the seeming Ethiopian slave, holding the noble dog in a leash, such as was used in woodcraft. It was a circumstance which attracted no notice, for many of the princes of the Crusade had introduced black slaves into their household, in imitation of the barbarous splendour of the Saracens. Over the King’s head streamed the large folds of the banner, and, as he looked to it from time to time, he seemed to regard a ceremony, indifferent to himself personally, as important, when considered as atoning an indignity offered to the kingdom which he ruled. In the background, and on the very summit of the Mount, a wooden turret, erected for the occasion, held the Queen Berengaria and the principal ladies of the Court. To this the King looked from time to time; and then ever and anon his eyes were turned on the Nubian and the dog, but only when such leaders approached, as, from circumstances of previous ill-will, he suspected of being accessory to the theft of the standard, or whom he judged capable of a crime so mean.

Thus, he did not look in that direction when Philip Augustus of France approached at the head of his splendid troops of Gallic chivalry —— nay, he anticipated the motions of the French King, by descending the Mount as the latter came up the ascent, so that they met in the middle space, and blended their greetings so gracefully that it appeared they met in fraternal equality. The sight of the two greatest princes in Europe, in rank at once and power, thus publicly avowing their concord, called forth bursts of thundering acclaim from the Crusading host at many miles distance, and made the roving Arab scouts of the desert alarm the camp of Saladin with intelligence that the army of the Christians was in motion. Yet who but the King of kings can read the hearts of monarchs? Under this smooth show of courtesy, Richard nourished displeasure and suspicion against Philip, and Philip meditated withdrawing himself and his host from the army of the Cross, and leaving Richard to accomplish or fail in the enterprise with his own unassisted forces.

Richard’s demeanour was different when the dark-armed knights and squires of the Temple chivalry approached — men with countenances bronzed to Asiatic blackness by the suns of Palestine, and the admirable state of whose horses and appointments far surpassed even that of the choicest troops of France and England. The King cast a hasty glance aside; but the Nubian stood quiet, and his trusty dog sat at his feet, watching, with a sagacious yet pleased look, the ranks which now passed before them. The King’s look turned again on the chivalrous Templars, as the Grand Master, availing himself of his mingled character, bestowed his benediction on Richard as a priest, instead of doing him reverence as a military leader.

“The misproud and amphibious caitiff puts the monk upon me,” said Richard to the Earl of Salisbury. “But, Longsword, we will let it pass. A punctilio must not lose Christendom the services of these experienced lances, because their victories have rendered them overweening. Lo you, here comes our valiant adversary, the Duke of Austria. Mark his manner and bearing, Longsword — and thou, Nubian, let the hound have full view of him. By Heaven, he brings his buffoons along with him!”

In fact, whether from habit, or, which is more likely, to intimate contempt of the ceremonial he was about to comply with, Leopold was attended by his SPRUCH-SPRECHER and his jester; and as he advanced towards Richard, he whistled in what he wished to be considered as an indifferent manner, though his heavy features evinced the sullenness, mixed with the fear, with which a truant schoolboy may be seen to approach his master. As the reluctant dignitary made, with discomposed and sulky look, the obeisance required, the SPRUCH-SPRECHER shook his baton, and proclaimed, like a herald, that, in what he was now doing, the Archduke of Austria was not to be held derogating from the rank and privileges of a sovereign prince; to which the jester answered with a sonorous AMEN, which provoked much laughter among the bystanders.

King Richard looked more than once at the Nubian and his dog; but the former moved not, nor did the latter strain at the leash, so that Richard said to the slave with some scorn, “Thy success in this enterprise, my sable friend, even though thou hast brought thy hound’s sagacity to back thine own, will not, I fear, place thee high in the rank of wizards, or much augment thy merits towards our person.”

The Nubian answered, as usual, only by a lowly obeisance.

Meantime the troops of the Marquis of Montserrat next passed in order before the King of England. That powerful and wily baron, to make the greater display of his forces, had divided them into two bodies. At the head of the first, consisting of his vassals and followers, and levied from his Syrian possessions, came his brother Enguerrand; and he himself followed, leading on a gallant band of twelve hundred Stradiots, a kind of light cavalry raised by the Venetians in their Dalmatian possessions, and of which they had entrusted the command to the Marquis, with whom the republic had many bonds of connection. These Stradiots were clothed in a fashion partly European, but partaking chiefly of the Eastern fashion. They wore, indeed, short hauberks, but had over them party-coloured tunics of rich stuffs, with large wide pantaloons and half-boots. On their heads were straight upright caps, similar to those of the Greeks; and they carried small round targets, bows and arrows, scimitars, and poniards. They were mounted on horses carefully selected, and well maintained at the expense of the State of Venice; their saddles and appointments resembled those of the Turks, and they rode in the same manner, with short stirrups and upon a high seat. These troops were of great use in skirmishing with the Arabs, though unable to engage in close combat, like the iron-sheathed men-at-arms of Western and Northern Europe.

Before this goodly band came Conrade, in the same garb with the Stradiots, but of such rich stuff that he seemed to blaze with gold and silver, and the milk-white plume fastened in his cap by a clasp of diamonds seemed tall enough to sweep the clouds. The noble steed which he reined bounded and caracoled, and displayed his spirit and agility in a manner which might have troubled a less admirable horseman than the Marquis, who gracefully ruled him with the one hand, while the other displayed the baton, whose predominancy over the ranks which he led seemed equally absolute. Yet his authority over the Stradiots was more in show than in substance; for there paced beside him, on an ambling palfrey of soberest mood, a little old man, dressed entirely in black, without beard or moustaches, and having an appearance altogether mean and insignificant when compared with the blaze of splendour around him. But this mean-looking old man was one of those deputies whom the Venetian government sent into camps to overlook the conduct of the generals to whom the leading was consigned, and to maintain that jealous system of espial and control which had long distinguished the policy of the republic.

Conrade, who, by cultivating Richard’s humour, had attained a certain degree of favour with him, no sooner was come within his ken than the King of England descended a step or two to meet him, exclaiming, at the same time, “Ha, Lord Marquis, thou at the head of the fleet Stradiots, and thy black shadow attending thee as usual, whether the sun shines or not! May not one ask thee whether the rule of the troops remains with the shadow or the substance?”

Conrade was commencing his reply with a smile, when Roswal, the noble hound, uttering a furious and savage yell, sprung forward. The Nubian, at the same time, slipped the leash, and the hound, rushing on, leapt upon Conrade’s noble charger, and, seizing the Marquis by the throat, pulled him down from the saddle. The plumed rider lay rolling on the sand, and the frightened horse fled in wild career through the camp.

“Thy hound hath pulled down the right quarry, I warrant him,” said the King to the Nubian, “and I vow to Saint George he is a stag of ten tynes! Pluck the dog off; lest he throttle him.”

The Ethiopian, accordingly, though not without difficulty, disengaged the dog from Conrade, and fastened him up, still highly excited, and struggling in the leash. Meanwhile many crowded to the spot, especially followers of Conrade and officers of the Stradiots, who, as they saw their leader lie gazing wildly on the sky, raised him up amid a tumultuary cry of “Cut the slave and his hound to pieces!”

But the voice of Richard, loud and sonorous, was heard clear above all other exclamations. “He dies the death who injures the hound! He hath but done his duty, after the sagacity with which God and nature have endowed the brave animal. — Stand forward for a false traitor, thou Conrade, Marquis of Montserrat! I impeach thee of treason.”

Several of the Syrian leaders had now come up, and Conrade — vexation, and shame, and confusion struggling with passion in his manner and voice — exclaimed, “What means this? With what am I charged? Why this base usage and these reproachful terms? Is this the league of concord which England renewed but so lately?”

“Are the Princes of the Crusade turned hares or deers in the eyes of King Richard that he should slip hounds on them?” said the sepulchral voice of the Grand Master of the Templars.

“It must be some singular accident — some fatal mistake,” said Philip of France, who rode up at the same moment.

“Some deceit of the Enemy,” said the Archbishop of Tyre.

“A stratagem of the Saracens,” cried Henry of Champagne. “It were well to hang up the dog, and put the slave to the torture.”

“Let no man lay hand upon them,” said Richard, “as he loves his own life! Conrade, stand forth, if thou darest, and deny the accusation which this mute animal hath in his noble instinct brought against thee, of injury done to him, and foul scorn to England!”

“I never touched the banner,” said Conrade hastily.

“Thy words betray thee, Conrade!” said Richard, “for how didst thou know, save from conscious guilt, that the question is concerning the banner?”

“Hast thou then not kept the camp in turmoil on that and no other score?” answered Conrade; “and dost thou impute to a prince and an ally a crime which, after all, was probably committed by some paltry felon for the sake of the gold thread? Or wouldst thou now impeach a confederate on the credit of a dog?”

By this time the alarm was becoming general, so that Philip of France interposed.

“Princes and nobles,” he said, “you speak in presence of those whose swords will soon be at the throats of each other if they hear their leaders at such terms together. In the name of Heaven, let us draw off each his own troops into their separate quarters, and ourselves meet an hour hence in the Pavilion of Council to take some order in this new state of confusion.”

“Content,” said King Richard, “though I should have liked to have interrogated that caitiff while his gay doublet was yet besmirched with sand. But the pleasure of France shall be ours in this matter.”

The leaders separated as was proposed, each prince placing himself at the head of his own forces; and then was heard on all sides the crying of war-cries and the sounding of gathering-notes upon bugles and trumpets, by which the different stragglers were summoned to their prince’s banner, and the troops were shortly seen in motion, each taking different routes through the camp to their own quarters. But although any immediate act of violence was thus prevented, yet the accident which had taken place dwelt on every mind; and those foreigners who had that morning hailed Richard as the worthiest to lead their army, now resumed their prejudices against his pride and intolerance, while the English, conceiving the honour of their country connected with the quarrel, of which various reports had gone about, considered the natives of other countries jealous of the fame of England and her King, and disposed to undermine it by the meanest arts of intrigue. Many and various were the rumours spread upon the occasion, and there was one which averred that the Queen and her ladies had been much alarmed by the tumult, and that one of them had swooned.

The Council assembled at the appointed hour. Conrade had in the meanwhile laid aside his dishonoured dress, and with it the shame and confusion which, in spite of his talents and promptitude, had at first overwhelmed him, owing to the strangeness of the accident and suddenness of the accusation. He was now robed like a prince; and entered the council-chamber attended by the Archduke of Austria, the Grand Masters both of the Temple and of the Order of Saint John, and several other potentates, who made a show of supporting him and defending his cause, chiefly perhaps from political motives, or because they themselves nourished a personal enmity against Richard.

This appearance of union in favour of Conrade was far from influencing the King of England. He entered the Council with his usual indifference of manner, and in the same dress in which he had just alighted from horseback. He cast a careless and somewhat scornful glance on the leaders, who had with studied affectation arranged themselves around Conrade as if owning his cause, and in the most direct terms charged Conrade of Montserrat with having stolen the Banner of England, and wounded the faithful animal who stood in its defence.

Conrade arose boldly to answer, and in despite, as he expressed himself, of man and brute, king or dog, avouched his innocence of the crime charged.

“Brother of England,” said Philip, who willingly assumed the character of moderator of the assembly, “this is an unusual impeachment. We do not hear you avouch your own knowledge of this matter, further than your belief resting upon the demeanour of this hound towards the Marquis of Montserrat. Surely the word of a knight and a prince should bear him out against the barking of a cur?”

“Royal brother,” returned Richard, “recollect that the Almighty, who gave the dog to be companion of our pleasures and our toils, hath invested him with a nature noble and incapable of deceit. He forgets neither friend nor foe — remembers, and with accuracy, both benefit and injury. He hath a share of man’s intelligence, but no share of man’s falsehood. You may bribe a soldier to slay a man with his sword, or a witness to take life by false accusation; but you cannot make a hound tear his benefactor. He is the friend of man, save when man justly incurs his enmity. Dress yonder marquis in what peacock-robes you will, disguise his appearance, alter his complexion with drugs and washes, hide him amidst a hundred men — I will yet pawn my sceptre that the hound detects him, and expresses his resentment, as you have this day beheld. This is no new incident, although a strange one. Murderers and robbers have been ere now convicted, and suffered death under such evidence, and men have said that the finger of God was in it. In thine own land, royal brother, and upon such an occasion, the matter was tried by a solemn duel betwixt the man and the dog, as appellant and defendant in a challenge of murder. The dog was victorious, the man was punished, and the crime was confessed. Credit me, royal brother, that hidden crimes have often been brought to light by the testimony even of inanimate substances, not to mention animals far inferior in instinctive sagacity to the dog, who is the friend and companion of our race.”

“Such a duel there hath indeed been, royal brother,” answered Philip, “and that in the reign of one of our predecessors, to whom God be gracious. But it was in the olden time, nor can we hold it a precedent fitting for this occasion. The defendant in that case was a private gentleman of small rank or respect; his offensive weapons were only a club, his defensive a leathern jerkin. But we cannot degrade a prince to the disgrace of using such rude arms, or to the ignominy of such a combat.”

“I never meant that you should,” said King Richard; “it were foul play to hazard the good hound’s life against that of such a double-faced traitor as this Conrade hath proved himself. But there lies our own glove; we appeal him to the combat in respect of the evidence we brought forth against him. A king, at least, is more than the mate of a marquis.”

Conrade made no hasty effort to seize on the pledge which Richard cast into the middle of the assembly, and King Philip had time to reply ere the marquis made a motion to lift the glove.

“A king,” said he of France, “is as much more than a match for the Marquis Conrade as a dog would be less. Royal Richard, this cannot be permitted. You are the leader of our expedition — the sword and buckler of Christendom.”

“I protest against such a combat,” said the Venetian proveditore, “until the King of England shall have repaid the fifty thousand byzants which he is indebted to the republic. It is enough to be threatened with loss of our debt, should our debtor fall by the hands of the pagans, without the additional risk of his being slain in brawls amongst Christians concerning dogs and banners.”

“And I,” said William with the Long Sword, Earl of Salisbury, “protest in my turn against my royal brother perilling his life, which is the property of the people of England, in such a cause. Here, noble brother, receive back your glove, and think only as if the wind had blown it from your hand. Mine shall lie in its stead. A king’s son, though with the bar sinister on his shield, is at least a match for this marmoset of a marquis.”

“Princes and nobles,” said Conrade, “I will not accept of King Richard’s defiance. He hath been chosen our leader against the Saracens, and if his conscience can answer the accusation of provoking an ally to the field on a quarrel so frivolous, mine, at least, cannot endure the reproach of accepting it. But touching his bastard brother, William of Woodstock, or against any other who shall adopt or shall dare to stand godfather to this most false charge, I will defend my honour in the lists, and prove whosoever impeaches it a false liar.”

“The Marquis of Montserrat,” said the Archbishop of Tyre, “hath spoken like a wise and moderate gentleman; and methinks this controversy might, without dishonour to any party, end at this point.”

“Methinks it might so terminate,” said the King of France, “provided King Richard will recall his accusation as made upon over-slight grounds.”

“Philip of France,” answered Coeur de Lion, “my words shall never do my thoughts so much injury. I have charged yonder Conrade as a thief, who, under cloud of night, stole from its place the emblem of England’s dignity. I still believe and charge him to be such; and when a day is appointed for the combat, doubt not that, since Conrade declines to meet us in person, I will find a champion to appear in support of my challenge — for thou, William, must not thrust thy long sword into this quarrel without our special license.”

“Since my rank makes me arbiter in this most unhappy matter,” said Philip of France, “I appoint the fifth day from hence for the decision thereof, by way of combat, according to knightly usage — Richard, King of England, to appear by his champion as appellant, and Conrade, Marquis of Montserrat, in his own person, as defendant. Yet I own I know not where to find neutral ground where such a quarrel may be fought out; for it must not be in the neighbourhood of this camp, where the soldiers would make faction on the different sides.”

“It were well,” said Richard, “to apply to the generosity of the royal Saladin, since, heathen as he is, I have never known knight more fulfilled of nobleness, or to whose good faith we may so peremptorily entrust ourselves. I speak thus for those who may be doubtful of mishap; for myself, wherever I see my foe, I make that spot my battle-ground.”

“Be it so,” said Philip; “we will make this matter known to Saladin, although it be showing to an enemy the unhappy spirit of discord which we would willingly hide from even ourselves, were it possible. Meanwhile, I dismiss this assembly, and charge you all, as Christian men and noble knights, that ye let this unhappy feud breed no further brawling in the camp, but regard it as a thing solemnly referred to the judgment of God, to whom each of you should pray that He will dispose of victory in the combat according to the truth of the quarrel; and therewith may His will be done!”

“Amen, amen!” was answered on all sides; while the Templar whispered the Marquis, “Conrade, wilt thou not add a petition to be delivered from the power of the dog, as the Psalmist hath it?”

“Peace, thou —!” replied the Marquis; “there is a revealing demon abroad which may report, amongst other tidings, how far thou dost carry the motto of thy order —“FERIATUR LEO.”

“Thou wilt stand the brunt of challenge?” said the Templar.

“Doubt me not,” said Conrade. “I would not, indeed, have willingly met the iron arm of Richard himself, and I shame not to confess that I rejoice to be free of his encounter; but, from his bastard brother downward, the man breathes not in his ranks whom I fear to meet.”

“It is well you are so confident,” continued the Templar; “and, in that case, the fangs of yonder hound have done more to dissolve this league of princes than either thy devices or the dagger of the Charegite. Seest thou how, under a brow studiously overclouded, Philip cannot conceal the satisfaction which he feels at the prospect of release from the alliance which sat so heavy on him? Mark how Henry of Champagne smiles to himself, like a sparkling goblet of his own wine; and see the chuckling delight of Austria, who thinks his quarrel is about to be avenged without risk or trouble of his own. Hush! he approaches. — A most grievous chance, most royal Austria, that these breaches in the walls of our Zion —”

“If thou meanest this Crusade,” replied the Duke, “I would it were crumbled to pieces, and each were safe at home! I speak this in confidence.”

“But,” said the Marquis of Montserrat, “to think this disunion should be made by the hands of King Richard, for whose pleasure we have been contented to endure so much, and to whom we have been as submissive as slaves to a master, in hopes that he would use his valour against our enemies, instead of exercising it upon our friends!”

“I see not that he is so much more valorous than others,” said the Archduke. “I believe, had the noble Marquis met him in the lists, he would have had the better; for though the islander deals heavy blows with the pole-axe, he is not so very dexterous with the lance. I should have cared little to have met him myself on our old quarrel, had the weal of Christendom permitted to sovereign princes to breathe themselves in the lists; and if thou desirest it, noble Marquis, I will myself be your godfather in this combat.”

“And I also,” said the Grand Master.

“Come, then, and take your nooning in our tent, noble sirs,” said the Duke, “and we’ll speak of this business over some right NIERENSTEIN.”

They entered together accordingly.

“What said our patron and these great folks together?” said Jonas Schwanker to his companion, the SPRUCH-SPRECHER, who had used the freedom to press nigh to his master when the Council was dismissed, while the jester waited at a more respectful distance.

“Servant of Folly,” said the SPRUCH-SPRECHER, “moderate thy curiosity; it beseems not that I should tell to thee the counsels of our master.”

“Man of wisdom, you mistake,” answered Jonas. “We are both the constant attendants on our patron, and it concerns us alike to know whether thou or I— Wisdom or Folly — have the deeper interest in him.”

“He told to the Marquis,” answered the SPRUCH-SPRECHER, “and to the Grand Master, that he was aweary of these wars, and would be glad he was safe at home.”

“That is a drawn cast, and counts for nothing in the game,” said the jester; “it was most wise to think thus, but great folly to tell it to others — proceed.”

“Ha, hem!” said the SPRUCH-SPRECHER; “he next said to them that Richard was not more valorous than others, or over-dexterous in the tilt-yard.”

“Woodcock of my side,” said Schwanker, “this was egregious folly. What next?”

“Nay, I am something oblivious,” replied the man of wisdom — “he invited them to a goblet of NIERENSTEIN.”

“That hath a show of wisdom in it,” said Jonas. “Thou mayest mark it to thy credit in the meantime; but an he drink too much, as is most likely, I will have it pass to mine. Anything more?”

“Nothing worth memory,” answered the orator; “only he wished he had taken the occasion to meet Richard in the lists.”

“Out upon it — out upon it!” said Jonas; “this is such dotage of folly that I am well-nigh ashamed of winning the game by it. Ne’ertheless, fool as he is, we will follow him, most sage SPRUCH-SPRECHER, and have our share of the wine of NIERENSTEIN.”

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