The knight laid aside his shoes as he was commanded, and the hermit
stood in the meanwhile as if communing with his soul in secret prayer,
and when he again moved, commanded the knight to knock at the wicket
three times. He did so. The door opened spontaneously--at least Sir
Kenneth beheld no one--and his senses were at once assailed by a stream
of the purest light, and by a strong and almost oppressive sense of the
richest perfumes. He stepped two or three paces back, and it was the
space of a minute ere he recovered the dazzling and overpowering effects
of the sudden change from darkness to light.

When he entered the apartment in which this brilliant lustre was
displayed, he perceived that the light proceeded from a combination of
silver lamps, fed with purest oil, and sending forth the richest odours,
hanging by silver chains from the roof of a small Gothic chapel, hewn,
like most part of the hermit's singular mansion, out of the sound and
solid rock. But whereas, in every other place which Sir Kenneth had
seen, the labour employed upon the rock had been of the simplest and
coarsest description, it had in this chapel employed the invention and
the chisels of the most able architects. The groined roofs rose from six
columns on each side, carved with the rarest skill; and the manner in
which the crossings of the concave arches were bound together, as it
were, with appropriate ornaments, were all in the finest tone of the
architecture of the age. Corresponding to the line of pillars, there
were on each side six richly-wrought niches, each of which contained the
image of one of the twelve apostles.

At the upper and eastern end of the chapel stood the altar, behind
which a very rich curtain of Persian silk, embroidered deeply with gold,
covered a recess, containing, unquestionably, some image or relic of no
ordinary sanctity, in honour of which this singular place of worship
had been erected, Under the persuasion that this must be the case, the
knight advanced to the shrine, and kneeling down before it, repeated his
devotions with fervency, during which his attention was disturbed by the
curtain being suddenly raised, or rather pulled aside, how or by whom he
saw not; but in the niche which was thus disclosed he beheld a cabinet
of silver and ebony, with a double folding-door, the whole formed into
the miniature resemblance of a Gothic church.

As he gazed with anxious curiosity on the shrine, the two folding-doors
also flew open, discovering a large piece of wood, on which were
blazoned the words, VERA CRUX; at the same time a choir of female voices
sung GLORIA PATRI. The instant the strain had ceased, the shrine was
closed, and the curtain again drawn, and the knight who knelt at the
altar might now continue his devotions undisturbed, in honour of the
holy relic which had been just disclosed to his view. He did this under
the profound impression of one who had witnessed, with his own eyes, an
awful evidence of the truth of his religion; and it was some time ere,
concluding his orisons, he arose, and ventured to look around him for
the hermit, who had guided him to this sacred and mysterious spot. He
beheld him, his head still muffled in the veil which he had himself
wrapped around it, crouching, like a rated hound, upon the threshold of
the chapel; but, apparently, without venturing to cross it--the holiest
reverence, the most penitential remorse, was expressed by his posture,
which seemed that of a man borne down and crushed to the earth by the
burden of his inward feelings. It seemed to the Scot that only the
sense of the deepest penitence, remorse, and humiliation could have thus
prostrated a frame so strong and a spirit so fiery.

He approached him as if to speak; but the recluse anticipated his
purpose, murmuring in stifled tones, from beneath the fold in which his
head was muffled, and which sounded like a voice proceeding from the
cerements of a corpse,--"Abide, abide--happy thou that mayest--the
vision is not yet ended." So saying, he reared himself from the ground,
drew back from the threshold on which he had hitherto lain prostrate,
and closed the door of the chapel, which, secured by a spring bolt
within, the snap of which resounded through the place, appeared so much
like a part of the living rock from which the cavern was hewn, that
Kenneth could hardly discern where the aperture had been. He was now
alone in the lighted chapel which contained the relic to which he had
lately rendered his homage, without other arms than his dagger, or other
companion than his pious thoughts and dauntless courage.

Uncertain what was next to happen, but resolved to abide the course of
events, Sir Kenneth paced the solitary chapel till about the time of the
earliest cock-crowing. At this dead season, when night and morning met
together, he heard, but from what quarter he could not discover, the
sound of such a small silver bell as is rung at the elevation of the
host in the ceremony, or sacrifice, as it has been called, of the mass.
The hour and the place rendered the sound fearfully solemn, and, bold as
he was, the knight withdrew himself into the farther nook of the
chapel, at the end opposite to the altar, in order to observe, without
interruption, the consequences of this unexpected signal.

He did not wait long ere the silken curtain was again withdrawn, and the
relic again presented to his view. As he sunk reverentially on his knee,
he heard the sound of the lauds, or earliest office of the Catholic
Church, sung by female voices, which united together in the performance
as they had done in the former service. The knight was soon aware that
the voices were no longer stationary in the distance, but approached the
chapel and became louder, when a door, imperceptible when closed, like
that by which he had himself entered, opened on the other side of the
vault, and gave the tones of the choir more room to swell along the
ribbed arches of the roof.

The knight fixed his eyes on the opening with breathless anxiety, and,
continuing to kneel in the attitude of devotion which the place and
scene required, expected the consequence of these preparations. A
procession appeared about to issue from the door. First, four beautiful
boys, whose arms, necks, and legs were bare, showing the bronze
complexion of the East, and contrasting with the snow-white tunics
which they wore, entered the chapel by two and two. The first pair bore
censers, which they swung from side to side, adding double fragrance
to the odours with which the chapel already was impregnated. The second
pair scattered flowers.

After these followed, in due and majestic order, the females who
composed the choir--six, who from their black scapularies, and black
veils over their white garments, appeared to be professed nuns of the
order of Mount Carmel; and as many whose veils, being white, argued them
to be novices, or occasional inhabitants in the cloister, who were
not as yet bound to it by vows. The former held in their hands large
rosaries, while the younger and lighter figures who followed carried
each a chaplet of red and white roses. They moved in procession around
the chapel, without appearing to take the slightest notice of Kenneth,
although passing so near him that their robes almost touched him, while
they continued to sing. The knight doubted not that he was in one of
those cloisters where the noble Christian maidens had formerly openly
devoted themselves to the services of the church. Most of them had been
suppressed since the Mohammedans had reconquered Palestine, but many,
purchasing connivance by presents, or receiving it from the clemency
or contempt of the victors, still continued to observe in private the
ritual to which their vows had consecrated them. Yet, though Kenneth
knew this to be the case, the solemnity of the place and hour, the
surprise at the sudden appearance of these votaresses, and the
visionary manner in which they moved past him, had such influence on his
imagination that he could scarce conceive that the fair procession
which he beheld was formed of creatures of this world, so much did
they resemble a choir of supernatural beings, rendering homage to the
universal object of adoration.

Such was the knight's first idea, as the procession passed him, scarce
moving, save just sufficiently to continue their progress; so that,
seen by the shadowy and religious light which the lamps shed through the
clouds of incense which darkened the apartment, they appeared rather to
glide than to walk.

But as a second time, in surrounding the chapel, they passed the spot on
which he kneeled, one of the white-stoled maidens, as she glided by him,
detached from the chaplet which she carried a rosebud, which dropped
from her fingers, perhaps unconsciously, on the foot of Sir Kenneth. The
knight started as if a dart had suddenly struck his person; for, when
the mind is wound up to a high pitch of feeling and expectation,
the slightest incident, if unexpected, gives fire to the train
which imagination has already laid. But he suppressed his emotion,
recollecting how easily an incident so indifferent might have happened,
and that it was only the uniform monotony of the movement of the
choristers which made the incident in the slightest degree remarkable.

Still, while the procession, for the third time, surrounded the chapel,
the thoughts and the eyes of Kenneth followed exclusively the one among
the novices who had dropped the rosebud. Her step, her face, her form
were so completely assimilated to the rest of the choristers that it
was impossible to perceive the least marks of individuality; and yet
Kenneth's heart throbbed like a bird that would burst from its cage, as
if to assure him, by its sympathetic suggestions, that the female who
held the right file on the second rank of the novices was dearer to him,
not only than all the rest that were present, but than the whole sex
besides. The romantic passion of love, as it was cherished, and indeed
enjoined, by the rules of chivalry, associated well with the no less
romantic feelings of devotion; and they might be said much more to
enhance than to counteract each other. It was, therefore, with a glow
of expectation that had something even of a religious character that
Sir Kenneth, his sensations thrilling from his heart to the ends of
his fingers, expected some second sign of the presence of one who, he
strongly fancied, had already bestowed on him the first. Short as
the space was during which the procession again completed a third
perambulation of the chapel, it seemed an eternity to Kenneth. At length
the form which he had watched with such devoted attention drew nigh.
There was no difference betwixt that shrouded figure and the others,
with whom it moved in concert and in unison, until, just as she passed
for the third time the kneeling Crusader, a part of a little and
well-proportioned hand, so beautifully formed as to give the highest
idea of the perfect proportions of the form to which it belonged, stole
through the folds of the gauze, like a moonbeam through the fleecy cloud
of a summer night, and again a rosebud lay at the feet of the Knight of
the Leopard.

This second intimation could not be accidental---it could not be
fortuitous, the resemblance of that half-seen but beautiful female hand
with one which his lips had once touched, and, while they touched it,
had internally sworn allegiance to the lovely owner. Had further proof
been wanting, there was the glimmer of that matchless ruby ring on that
snow-white finger, whose invaluable worth Kenneth would yet have prized
less than the slightest sign which that finger could have made; and,
veiled too, as she was, he might see, by chance or by favour, a stray
curl of the dark tresses, each hair of which was dearer to him a hundred
times than a chain of massive gold. It was the lady of his love! But
that she should be here--in the savage and sequestered desert--among
vestals, who rendered themselves habitants of wilds and of caverns, that
they might perform in secret those Christian rites which they dared
not assist in openly; that this should be so, in truth and in reality,
seemed too incredible--it must be a dream--a delusive trance of the
imagination. While these thoughts passed through the mind of Kenneth,
the same passage, by which the procession had entered the chapel,
received them on their return. The young sacristans, the sable nuns,
vanished successively through the open door. At length she from whom he
had received this double intimation passed also; yet, in passing, turned
her head, slightly indeed, but perceptibly, towards the place where he
remained fixed as an image. He marked the last wave of her veil--it was
gone--and a darkness sunk upon his soul, scarce less palpable than that
which almost immediately enveloped his external sense; for the last
chorister had no sooner crossed the threshold of the door than it shut
with a loud sound, and at the same instant the voices of the choir were
silent, the lights of the chapel were at once extinguished, and Sir
Kenneth remained solitary and in total darkness. But to Kenneth,
solitude, and darkness, and the uncertainty of his mysterious situation
were as nothing--he thought not of them--cared not for them--cared for
nought in the world save the flitting vision which had just glided past
him, and the tokens of her favour which she had bestowed. To grope on
the floor for the buds which she had dropped--to press them to his lips,
to his bosom, now alternately, now together--to rivet his lips to the
cold stones on which, as near as he could judge, she had so lately
stepped--to play all the extravagances which strong affection suggests
and vindicates to those who yield themselves up to it, were but the
tokens of passionate love common to all ages. But it was peculiar to the
times of chivalry that, in his wildest rapture, the knight imagined of
no attempt to follow or to trace the object of such romantic attachment;
that he thought of her as of a deity, who, having deigned to show
herself for an instant to her devoted worshipper, had again returned
to the darkness of her sanctuary--or as an influential planet, which,
having darted in some auspicious minute one favourable ray, wrapped
itself again in its veil of mist. The motions of the lady of his love
were to him those of a superior being, who was to move without watch or
control, rejoice him by her appearance, or depress him by her absence,
animate him by her kindness, or drive him to despair by her cruelty--all
at her own free will, and without other importunity or remonstrance than
that expressed by the most devoted services of the heart and sword of
the champion, whose sole object in life was to fulfil her commands, and,
by the splendour of his own achievements, to exalt her fame.

Such were the rules of chivalry, and of the love which was its ruling
principle. But Sir Kenneth's attachment was rendered romantic by other
and still more peculiar circumstances. He had never even heard the sound
of his lady's voice, though he had often beheld her beauty with rapture.
She moved in a circle which his rank of knighthood permitted him
indeed to approach, but not to mingle with; and highly as he stood
distinguished for warlike skill and enterprise, still the poor Scottish
soldier was compelled to worship his divinity at a distance almost as
great as divides the Persian from the sun which he adores. But when was
the pride of woman too lofty to overlook the passionate devotion of
a lover, however inferior in degree? Her eye had been on him in the
tournament, her ear had heard his praises in the report of the battles
which were daily fought; and while count, duke, and lord contended
for her grace, it flowed, unwillingly perhaps at first, or even
unconsciously, towards the poor Knight of the Leopard, who, to support
his rank, had little besides his sword. When she looked, and when she
listened, the lady saw and heard enough to encourage her in a partiality
which had at first crept on her unawares. If a knight's personal beauty
was praised, even the most prudish dames of the military court of
England would make an exception in favour of the Scottish Kenneth;
and it oftentimes happened that, notwithstanding the very considerable
largesses which princes and peers bestowed on the minstrels, an
impartial spirit of independence would seize the poet, and the harp was
swept to the heroism of one who had neither palfreys nor garments to
bestow in guerdon of his applause.

The moments when she listened to the praises of her lover became
gradually more and more dear to the high-born Edith, relieving the
flattery with which her ear was weary, and presenting to her a subject
of secret contemplation, more worthy, as he seemed by general report,
than those who surpassed him in rank and in the gifts of fortune. As her
attention became constantly, though cautiously, fixed on Sir Kenneth,
she grew more and more convinced of his personal devotion to herself and
more and more certain in her mind that in Kenneth of Scotland she beheld
the fated knight doomed to share with her through weal and woe--and the
prospect looked gloomy and dangerous--the passionate attachment to which
the poets of the age ascribed such universal dominion, and which its
manners and morals placed nearly on the same rank with devotion itself.

Let us not disguise the truth from our readers. When Edith became aware
of the state of her own sentiments, chivalrous as were her sentiments,
becoming a maiden not distant from the throne of England--gratified as
her pride must have been with the mute though unceasing homage rendered
to her by the knight whom she had distinguished, there were moments
when the feelings of the woman, loving and beloved, murmured against the
restraints of state and form by which she was surrounded, and when she
almost blamed the timidity of her lover, who seemed resolved not to
infringe them. The etiquette, to use a modern phrase, of birth and rank,
had drawn around her a magical circle, beyond which Sir Kenneth might
indeed bow and gaze, but within which he could no more pass than an
evoked spirit can transgress the boundaries prescribed by the rod of a
powerful enchanter. The thought involuntarily pressed on her that she
herself must venture, were it but the point of her fairy foot, beyond
the prescribed boundary, if she ever hoped to give a lover so reserved
and bashful an opportunity of so slight a favour as but to salute her
shoe-tie. There was an example--the noted precedent of the "King's
daughter of Hungary," who thus generously encouraged the "squire of low
degree;" and Edith, though of kingly blood, was no king's daughter, any
more than her lover was of low degree--fortune had put no such extreme
barrier in obstacle to their affections. Something, however, within
the maiden's bosom--that modest pride which throws fetters even on love
itself forbade her, notwithstanding the superiority of her condition, to
make those advances, which, in every case, delicacy assigns to the other
sex; above all, Sir Kenneth was a knight so gentle and honourable, so
highly accomplished, as her imagination at least suggested, together
with the strictest feelings of what was due to himself and to her,
that however constrained her attitude might be while receiving his
adorations, like the image of some deity, who is neither supposed to
feel nor to reply to the homage of its votaries, still the idol feared
that to step prematurely from her pedestal would be to degrade herself
in the eyes of her devoted worshipper.

Yet the devout adorer of an actual idol can even discover signs of
approbation in the rigid and immovable features of a marble image;
and it is no wonder that something, which could be as favourably
interpreted, glanced from the bright eye of the lovely Edith, whose
beauty, indeed, consisted rather more in that very power of expression,
than an absolute regularity of contour or brilliancy of complexion. Some
slight marks of distinction had escaped from her, notwithstanding her
own jealous vigilance, else how could Sir Kenneth have so readily and
so undoubtingly recognized the lovely hand, of which scarce two fingers
were visible from under the veil, or how could he have rested so
thoroughly assured that two flowers, successively dropped on the spot,
were intended as a recognition on the part of his lady-love? By what
train of observation--by what secret signs, looks, or gestures--by what
instinctive freemasonry of love, this degree of intelligence came to
subsist between Edith and her lover, we cannot attempt to trace; for we
are old, and such slight vestiges of affection, quickly discovered by
younger eyes, defy the power of ours. Enough that such affection
did subsist between parties who had never even spoken to one
another--though, on the side of Edith, it was checked by a deep sense of
the difficulties and dangers which must necessarily attend the further
progress of their attachment; and upon that of the knight by a thousand
doubts and fears lest he had overestimated the slight tokens of the
lady's notice, varied, as they necessarily were, by long intervals
of apparent coldness, during which either the fear of exciting the
observation of others, and thus drawing danger upon her lover, or that
of sinking in his esteem by seeming too willing to be won, made her
behave with indifference, and as if unobservant of his presence.

This narrative, tedious perhaps, but which the story renders necessary,
may serve to explain the state of intelligence, if it deserves so strong
a name, betwixt the lovers, when Edith's unexpected appearance in the
chapel produced so powerful an effect on the feelings of her knight.

CHAPTER V.

     Their necromantic forms in vain
     Haunt us on the tented plain;
     We bid these spectre shapes avaunt,
     Ashtaroth and Termagaunt.     WARTON.

The most profound silence, the deepest darkness, continued to brood for
more than an hour over the chapel in which we left the Knight of the
Leopard still kneeling, alternately expressing thanks to Heaven and
gratitude to his lady for the boon which had been vouchsafed to him.
His own safety, his own destiny, for which he was at all times little
anxious, had not now the weight of a grain of dust in his reflections.
He was in the neighbourhood of Lady Edith; he had received tokens of her
grace; he was in a place hallowed by relics of the most awful sanctity.
A Christian soldier, a devoted lover, could fear nothing, think of
nothing, but his duty to Heaven and his devoir to his lady.

At the lapse of the space of time which we have noticed, a shrill
whistle, like that with which a falconer calls his hawk, was heard to
ring sharply through the vaulted chapel. It was a sound ill suited to
the place, and reminded Sir Kenneth how necessary it was he should be
upon his guard. He started from his knee, and laid his hand upon his
poniard. A creaking sound, as of a screw or pulleys, succeeded, and a
light streaming upwards, as from an opening in the floor, showed that
a trap-door had been raised or depressed. In less than a minute a long,
skinny arm, partly naked, partly clothed in a sleeve of red samite,
arose out of the aperture, holding a lamp as high as it could stretch
upwards, and the figure to which the arm belonged ascended step by step
to the level of the chapel floor. The form and face of the being who
thus presented himself were those of a frightful dwarf, with a large
head, a cap fantastically adorned with three peacock feathers, a
dress of red samite, the richness of which rendered his ugliness more
conspicuous, distinguished by gold bracelets and armlets, and a white
silk sash, in which he wore a gold-hilted dagger. This singular figure
had in his left hand a kind of broom. So soon as he had stepped from
the aperture through which he arose, he stood still, and, as if to show
himself more distinctly, moved the lamp which he held slowly over
his face and person, successively illuminating his wild and fantastic
features, and his misshapen but nervous limbs. Though disproportioned in
person, the dwarf was not so distorted as to argue any want of strength
or activity. While Sir Kenneth gazed on this disagreeable object, the
popular creed occurred to his remembrance concerning the gnomes or
earthly spirits which make their abode in the caverns of the earth; and
so much did this figure correspond with ideas he had formed of their
appearance, that he looked on it with disgust, mingled not indeed with
fear, but that sort of awe which the presence of a supernatural creature
may infuse into the most steady bosom.

The dwarf again whistled, and summoned from beneath a companion. This
second figure ascended in the same manner as the first; but it was
a female arm in this second instance which upheld the lamp from the
subterranean vault out of which these presentments arose, and it was a
female form, much resembling the first in shape and proportions,
which slowly emerged from the floor. Her dress was also of red samite,
fantastically cut and flounced, as if she had been dressed for some
exhibition of mimes or jugglers; and with the same minuteness which her
predecessor had exhibited, she passed the lamp over her face and person,
which seemed to rival the male's in ugliness. But with all this most
unfavourable exterior, there was one trait in the features of both which
argued alertness and intelligence in the most uncommon degree. This
arose from the brilliancy of their eyes, which, deep-set beneath black
and shaggy brows, gleamed with a lustre which, like that in the eye
of the toad, seemed to make some amends for the extreme ugliness of
countenance and person.

Sir Kenneth remained as if spellbound, while this unlovely pair, moving
round the chapel close to each other, appeared to perform the duty of
sweeping it, like menials; but as they used only one hand, the floor was
not much benefited by the exercise, which they plied with such oddity of
gestures and manner as befitted their bizarre and fantastic appearance.
When they approached near to the knight in the course of their
occupation, they ceased to use their brooms; and placing themselves side
by side, directly opposite to Sir Kenneth, they again slowly shifted the
lights which they held, so as to allow him distinctly to survey features
which were not rendered more agreeable by being brought nearer, and to
observe the extreme quickness and keenness with which their black and
glittering eyes flashed back the light of the lamps. They then turned
the gleam of both lights upon the knight, and having accurately surveyed
him, turned their faces to each other, and set up a loud, yelling laugh,
which resounded in his ears. The sound was so ghastly that Sir Kenneth
started at hearing it, and hastily demanded, in the name of God, who
they were who profaned that holy place with such antic gestures and
elritch exclamations.

"I am the dwarf Nectabanus," said the abortion-seeming male, in a voice
corresponding to his figure, and resembling the voice of the night-crow
more than any sound which is heard by daylight.

"And I am Guenevra, his lady and his love," replied the female, in tones
which, being shriller, were yet wilder than those of her companion.

"Wherefore are you here?" again demanded the knight, scarcely yet
assured that they were human beings which he saw before him.

"I am," replied the male dwarf, with much assumed gravity and dignity,
"the twelfth Imaum. I am Mohammed Mohadi, the guide and the conductor of
the faithful. A hundred horses stand ready saddled for me and my train
at the Holy City, and as many at the City of Refuge. I am he who shall
bear witness, and this is one of my houris."

"Thou liest!" answered the female, interrupting her companion, in tones
yet shriller than his own; "I am none of thy houris, and thou art no
such infidel trash as the Mohammed of whom thou speakest. May my curse
rest upon his coffin! I tell thee, thou ass of Issachar, thou art King
Arthur of Britain, whom the fairies stole away from the field of Avalon;
and I am Dame Guenevra, famed for her beauty."

"But in truth, noble sir," said the male, "we are distressed princes,
dwelling under the wing of King Guy of Jerusalem, until he was driven
out from his own nest by the foul infidels--Heaven's bolts consume
them!"

"Hush," said a voice from the side upon which the knight had
entered--"hush, fools, and begone; your ministry is ended."

The dwarfs had no sooner heard the command than, gibbering in discordant
whispers to each other, they blew out their lights at once, and left the
knight in utter darkness, which, when the pattering of their retiring
feet had died away, was soon accompanied by its fittest companion, total
silence.

The knight felt the departure of these unfortunate creatures a relief.
He could not, from their language, manners, and appearance, doubt that
they belonged to the degraded class of beings whom deformity of person
and weakness of intellect recommended to the painful situation of
appendages to great families, where their personal appearance and
imbecility were food for merriment to the household. Superior in no
respect to the ideas and manners of his time, the Scottish knight might,
at another period, have been much amused by the mummery of these poor
effigies of humanity; but now their appearance, gesticulations, and
language broke the train of deep and solemn feeling with which he was
impressed, and he rejoiced in the disappearance of the unhappy objects.

A few minutes after they had retired, the door at which he had entered
opened slowly, and remaining ajar, discovered a faint light arising from
a lantern placed upon the threshold. Its doubtful and wavering gleam
showed a dark form reclined beside the entrance, but without its
precincts, which, on approaching it more nearly, he recognized to be the
hermit, crouching in the same humble posture in which he had at first
laid himself down, and which, doubtless, he had retained during the
whole time of his guest's continuing in the chapel.

"All is over," said the hermit, as he heard the knight approaching, "and
the most wretched of earthly sinners, with him who should think himself
most honoured and most happy among the race of humanity, must retire
from this place. Take the light, and guide me down the descent, for I
must not uncover my eyes until I am far from this hallowed spot."

The Scottish knight obeyed in silence, for a solemn and yet ecstatic
sense of what he had seen had silenced even the eager workings of
curiosity. He led the way, with considerable accuracy, through the
various secret passages and stairs by which they had ascended, until at
length they found themselves in the outward cell of the hermit's cavern.

"The condemned criminal is restored to his dungeon, reprieved from one
miserable day to another, until his awful Judge shall at length appoint
the well-deserved sentence to be carried into execution."

As the hermit spoke these words, he laid aside the veil with which his
eyes had been bound, and looked at it with a suppressed and hollow sigh.
No sooner had he restored it to the crypt from which he had caused the
Scot to bring it, than he said hastily and sternly to his companion;
"Begone, begone--to rest, to rest. You may sleep--you can sleep--I
neither can nor may."

Respecting the profound agitation with which this was spoken, the knight
retired into the inner cell; but casting back his eye as he left the
exterior grotto, he beheld the anchorite stripping his shoulders with
frantic haste of their shaggy mantle, and ere he could shut the frail
door which separated the two compartments of the cavern, he heard
the clang of the scourge and the groans of the penitent under his
self-inflicted penance. A cold shudder came over the knight as he
reflected what could be the foulness of the sin, what the depth of the
remorse, which, apparently, such severe penance could neither cleanse
nor assuage. He told his beads devoutly, and flung himself on his rude
couch, after a glance at the still sleeping Moslem, and, wearied by the
various scenes of the day and the night, soon slept as sound as infancy.
Upon his awaking in the morning, he held certain conferences with the
hermit upon matters of importance, and the result of their intercourse
induced him to remain for two days longer in the grotto. He was regular,
as became a pilgrim, in his devotional exercises, but was not again
admitted to the chapel in which he had seen such wonders.

CHAPTER VI.

     Now change the scene--and let the trumpets sound,
     For we must rouse the lion from his lair.  OLD PLAY.

The scene must change, as our programme has announced, from the mountain
wilderness of Jordan to the camp of King Richard of England, then
stationed betwixt Jean d'Acre and Ascalon, and containing that army with
which he of the lion heart had promised himself a triumphant march
to Jerusalem, and in which he would probably have succeeded, if not
hindered by the jealousies of the Christian princes engaged in the same
enterprise, and the offence taken by them at the uncurbed haughtiness
of the English monarch, and Richard's unveiled contempt for his brother
sovereigns, who, his equals in rank, were yet far his inferiors
in courage, hardihood, and military talents. Such discords, and
particularly those betwixt Richard and Philip of France, created
disputes and obstacles which impeded every active measure proposed by
the heroic though impetuous Richard, while the ranks of the Crusaders
were daily thinned, not only by the desertion of individuals, but of
entire bands, headed by their respective feudal leaders, who withdrew
from a contest in which they had ceased to hope for success.

The effects of the climate became, as usual, fatal to soldiers from
the north, and the more so that the dissolute license of the Crusaders,
forming a singular contrast to the principles and purpose of their
taking up arms, rendered them more easy victims to the insalubrious
influence of burning heat and chilling dews. To these discouraging
causes of loss was to be added the sword of the enemy. Saladin, than
whom no greater name is recorded in Eastern history, had learned, to
his fatal experience, that his light-armed followers were little able to
meet in close encounter with the iron-clad Franks, and had been taught,
at the same time, to apprehend and dread the adventurous character of
his antagonist Richard. But if his armies were more than once routed
with great slaughter, his numbers gave the Saracen the advantage in
those lighter skirmishes, of which many were inevitable.

As the army of his assailants decreased, the enterprises of the Sultan
became more numerous and more bold in this species of petty warfare. The
camp of the Crusaders was surrounded, and almost besieged, by clouds of
light cavalry, resembling swarms of wasps, easily crushed when they are
once grasped, but furnished with wings to elude superior strength, and
stings to inflict harm and mischief. There was perpetual warfare of
posts and foragers, in which many valuable lives were lost, without
any corresponding object being gained; convoys were intercepted, and
communications were cut off. The Crusaders had to purchase the means
of sustaining life, by life itself; and water, like that of the well of
Bethlehem, longed for by King David, one of its ancient monarchs, was
then, as before, only obtained by the expenditure of blood.

These evils were in a great measure counterbalanced by the stern
resolution and restless activity of King Richard, who, with some of his
best knights, was ever on horseback, ready to repair to any point where
danger occurred, and often not only bringing unexpected succour to the
Christians, but discomfiting the infidels when they seemed most secure
of victory. But even the iron frame of Coeur de Lion could not support
without injury the alternations of the unwholesome climate, joined to
ceaseless exertions of body and mind. He became afflicted with one of
those slow and wasting fevers peculiar to Asia, and in despite of his
great strength and still greater courage, grew first unfit to mount on
horseback, and then unable to attend the councils of war which were from
time to time held by the Crusaders. It was difficult to say whether this
state of personal inactivity was rendered more galling or more endurable
to the English monarch by the resolution of the council to engage in a
truce of thirty days with the Sultan Saladin; for on the one hand, if he
was incensed at the delay which this interposed to the progress of the
great enterprise, he was, on the other, somewhat consoled by knowing
that others were not acquiring laurels while he remained inactive upon a
sick-bed.

That, however, which Coeur de Lion could least excuse was the general
inactivity which prevailed in the camp of the Crusaders so soon as his
illness assumed a serious aspect; and the reports which he extracted
from his unwilling attendants gave him to understand that the hopes of
the host had abated in proportion to his illness, and that the interval
of truce was employed, not in recruiting their numbers, reanimating
their courage, fostering their spirit of conquest, and preparing for a
speedy and determined advance upon the Holy City, which was the
object of their expedition, but in securing the camp occupied by their
diminished followers with trenches, palisades, and other fortifications,
as if preparing rather to repel an attack from a powerful enemy so soon
as hostilities should recommence, than to assume the proud character of
conquerors and assailants.

The English king chafed under these reports, like the imprisoned lion
viewing his prey from the iron barriers of his cage. Naturally rash
and impetuous, the irritability of his temper preyed on itself. He was
dreaded by his attendants and even the medical assistants feared to
assume the necessary authority which a physician, to do justice to his
patient, must needs exercise over him. One faithful baron, who, perhaps,
from the congenial nature of his disposition, was devoutly attached to
the King's person, dared alone to come between the dragon and his wrath,
and quietly, but firmly, maintained a control which no other dared
assume over the dangerous invalid, and which Thomas de Multon only
exercised because he esteemed his sovereign's life and honour more than
he did the degree of favour which he might lose, or even the risk
which he might incur, in nursing a patient so intractable, and whose
displeasure was so perilous.

Sir Thomas was the Lord of Gilsland, in Cumberland, and in an age
when surnames and titles were not distinctly attached, as now, to the
individuals who bore them, he was called by the Normans the Lord de
Vaux; and in English by the Saxons, who clung to their native language,
and were proud of the share of Saxon blood in this renowned warrior's
veins, he was termed Thomas, or, more familiarly, Thom of the Gills,
or Narrow Valleys, from which his extensive domains derived their
well-known appellation.

This chief had been exercised in almost all the wars, whether waged
betwixt England and Scotland, or amongst the various domestic factions
which then tore the former country asunder, and in all had been
distinguished, as well from his military conduct as his personal
prowess. He was, in other respects, a rude soldier, blunt and careless
in his bearing, and taciturn--nay, almost sullen--in his habits of
society, and seeming, at least, to disclaim all knowledge of policy and
of courtly art. There were men, however, who pretended to look deeply
into character, who asserted that the Lord de Vaux was not less shrewd
and aspiring than he was blunt and bold, and who thought that, while he
assimilated himself to the king's own character of blunt hardihood, it
was, in some degree at least, with an eye to establish his favour, and
to gratify his own hopes of deep-laid ambition. But no one cared to
thwart his schemes, if such he had, by rivalling him in the dangerous
occupation of daily attendance on the sick-bed of a patient whose
disease was pronounced infectious, and more especially when it was
remembered that the patient was Coeur de Lion, suffering under all the
furious impatience of a soldier withheld from battle, and a sovereign
sequestered from authority; and the common soldiers, at least in the
English army, were generally of opinion that De Vaux attended on
the King like comrade upon comrade, in the honest and disinterested
frankness of military friendship contracted between the partakers of
daily dangers.

It was on the decline of a Syrian day that Richard lay on his couch of
sickness, loathing it as much in mind as his illness made it irksome to
his body. His bright blue eye, which at all times shone with uncommon
keenness and splendour, had its vivacity augmented by fever and mental
impatience, and glanced from among his curled and unshorn locks of
yellow hair as fitfully and as vividly as the last gleams of the sun
shoot through the clouds of an approaching thunderstorm, which still,
however, are gilded by its beams. His manly features showed the
progress of wasting illness, and his beard, neglected and untrimmed,
had overgrown both lips and chin. Casting himself from side to side, now
clutching towards him the coverings, which at the next moment he flung
as impatiently from him, his tossed couch and impatient gestures showed
at once the energy and the reckless impatience of a disposition whose
natural sphere was that of the most active exertion.

Beside his couch stood Thomas de Vaux, in face, attitude, and manner
the strongest possible contrast to the suffering monarch. His stature
approached the gigantic, and his hair in thickness might have resembled
that of Samson, though only after the Israelitish champion's locks had
passed under the shears of the Philistines, for those of De Vaux were
cut short, that they might be enclosed under his helmet. The light of
his broad, large hazel eye resembled that of the autumn morn; and it was
only perturbed for a moment, when from time to time it was attracted by
Richard's vehement marks of agitation and restlessness. His features,
though massive like his person, might have been handsome before they
were defaced with scars; his upper lip, after the fashion of the
Normans, was covered with thick moustaches, which grew so long and
luxuriantly as to mingle with his hair, and, like his hair, were dark
brown, slightly brindled with grey. His frame seemed of that kind which
most readily defies both toil and climate, for he was thin-flanked,
broad-chested, long-armed, deep-breathed, and strong-limbed. He had not
laid aside his buff-coat, which displayed the cross cut on the shoulder,
for more than three nights, enjoying but such momentary repose as the
warder of a sick monarch's couch might by snatches indulge. This Baron
rarely changed his posture, except to administer to Richard the medicine
or refreshments which none of his less favoured attendants could
persuade the impatient monarch to take; and there was something
affecting in the kindly yet awkward manner in which he discharged
offices so strangely contrasted with his blunt and soldierly habits and
manners.

The pavilion in which these personages were, had, as became the time,
as well as the personal character of Richard, more of a warlike than a
sumptuous or royal character. Weapons offensive and defensive, several
of them of strange and newly-invented construction, were scattered about
the tented apartment, or disposed upon the pillars which supported it.
Skins of animals slain in the chase were stretched on the ground, or
extended along the sides of the pavilion; and upon a heap of
these silvan spoils lay three ALANS, as they were then called
(wolf-greyhounds, that is), of the largest size, and as white as snow.
Their faces, marked with many a scar from clutch and fang, showed their
share in collecting the trophies upon which they reposed; and their
eyes, fixed from time to time with an expressive stretch and yawn upon
the bed of Richard, evinced how much they marvelled at and regretted the
unwonted inactivity which they were compelled to share. These were but
the accompaniments of the soldier and huntsman; but on a small table
close by the bed was placed a shield of wrought steel, of triangular
form, bearing the three lions passant first assumed by the chivalrous
monarch, and before it the golden circlet, resembling much a ducal
coronet, only that it was higher in front than behind, which, with
the purple velvet and embroidered tiara that lined it, formed then the
emblem of England's sovereignty. Beside it, as if prompt for defending
the regal symbol, lay a mighty curtal-axe, which would have wearied the
arm of any other than Coeur de Lion.

In an outer partition of the pavilion waited two or three officers of
the royal household, depressed, anxious for their master's health, and
not less so for their own safety, in case of his decease. Their gloomy
apprehensions spread themselves to the warders without, who paced about
in downcast and silent contemplation, or, resting on their halberds,
stood motionless on their post, rather like armed trophies than living
warriors.

"So thou hast no better news to bring me from without, Sir Thomas!"
said the King, after a long and perturbed silence, spent in the feverish
agitation which we have endeavoured to describe. "All our knights turned
women, and our ladies become devotees, and neither a spark of valour nor
of gallantry to enlighten a camp which contains the choicest of Europe's
chivalry--ha!"

"The truce, my lord," said De Vaux, with the same patience with which
he had twenty times repeated the explanation--"the truce prevents us
bearing ourselves as men of action; and for the ladies, I am no great
reveller, as is well known to your Majesty, and seldom exchange steel
and buff for velvet and gold--but thus far I know, that our choicest
beauties are waiting upon the Queen's Majesty and the Princess, to a
pilgrimage to the convent of Engaddi, to accomplish their vows for your
Highness's deliverance from this trouble."

"And is it thus," said Richard, with the impatience of indisposition,
"that royal matrons and maidens should risk themselves, where the dogs
who defile the land have as little truth to man as they have faith
towards God?"

"Nay, my lord," said De Vaux, "they have Saladin's word for their
safety."

"True, true!" replied Richard; "and I did the heathen Soldan
injustice--I owe him reparation for it. Would God I were but fit
to offer it him upon my body between the two hosts--Christendom and
heathenesse both looking on!"

As Richard spoke, he thrust his right arm out of bed naked to the
shoulder, and painfully raising himself in his couch, shook his clenched
hand, as if it grasped sword or battle-axe, and was then brandished over
the jewelled turban of the Soldan. It was not without a gentle degree of
violence, which the King would scarce have endured from another, that
De Vaux, in his character of sick-nurse, compelled his royal master
to replace himself in the couch, and covered his sinewy arm, neck, and
shoulders with the care which a mother bestows upon an impatient child.

"Thou art a rough nurse, though a willing one, De Vaux," said the King,
laughing with a bitter expression, while he submitted to the strength
which he was unable to resist; "methinks a coif would become thy
lowering features as well as a child's biggin would beseem mine. We
should be a babe and nurse to frighten girls with."

"We have frightened men in our time, my liege," said De Vaux; "and, I
trust, may live to frighten them again. What is a fever-fit, that we
should not endure it patiently, in order to get rid of it easily?"

"Fever-fit!" exclaimed Richard impetuously; "thou mayest think, and
justly, that it is a fever-fit with me; but what is it with all the
other Christian princes--with Philip of France, with that dull Austrian,
with him of Montserrat, with the Hospitallers, with the Templars--what
is it with all them? I will tell thee. It is a cold palsy, a dead
lethargy, a disease that deprives them of speech and action, a canker
that has eaten into the heart of all that is noble, and chivalrous, and
virtuous among them--that has made them false to the noblest vow ever
knights were sworn to--has made them indifferent to their fame, and
forgetful of their God!"

"For the love of Heaven, my liege," said De Vaux, "take it less
violently--you will be heard without doors, where such speeches are but
too current already among the common soldiery, and engender discord and
contention in the Christian host. Bethink you that your illness mars the
mainspring of their enterprise; a mangonel will work without screw and
lever better than the Christian host without King Richard."

"Thou flatterest me, De Vaux," said Richard, and not insensible to
the power of praise, he reclined his head on the pillow with a more
deliberate attempt to repose than he had yet exhibited. But Thomas
de Vaux was no courtier; the phrase which had offered had risen
spontaneously to his lips, and he knew not how to pursue the pleasing
theme so as to soothe and prolong the vein which he had excited. He was
silent, therefore, until, relapsing into his moody contemplations, the
King demanded of him sharply, "Despardieux! This is smoothly said to
soothe a sick man; but does a league of monarchs, an assemblage or
nobles, a convocation of all the chivalry of Europe, droop with the
sickness of one man, though he chances to be King of England? Why
should Richard's illness, or Richard's death, check the march of thirty
thousand men as brave as himself? When the master stag is struck down,
the herd do not disperse upon his fall; when the falcon strikes the
leading crane, another takes the guidance of the phalanx. Why do not
the powers assemble and choose some one to whom they may entrust the
guidance of the host?"

"Forsooth, and if it please your Majesty," said De Vaux, "I hear
consultations have been held among the royal leaders for some such
purpose."

"Ha!" exclaimed Richard, his jealousy awakened, giving his mental
irritation another direction, "am I forgot by my allies ere I have taken
the last sacrament? Do they hold me dead already? But no, no, they are
right. And whom do they select as leader of the Christian host?"

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

"Oh, ay," answered the English monarch, "Philip of France and
Navarre--Denis Mountjoie--his most Christian Majesty! Mouth-filling
words these! There is but one risk--that he might mistake the words EN
ARRIERE for EN AVANT, and lead us back to Paris, instead of marching to
Jerusalem. His politic head has learned by this time that there is more
to be gotten by oppressing his feudatories, and pillaging his allies,
than fighting with the Turks for the Holy Sepulchre."

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

"What! because he is big and burly like thyself, Thomas--nearly as
thick-headed, but without thy indifference to danger and carelessness
of offence? I tell thee that Austria has in all that mass of flesh no
bolder animation than is afforded by the peevishness of a wasp and the
courage of a wren. Out upon him! He a leader of chivalry to deeds
of glory! Give him a flagon of Rhenish to drink with his besmirched
baaren-hauters and lance-knechts."

"There is the Grand Master of the Templars," continued the baron, not
sorry to keep his master's attention engaged on other topics than his
own illness, though at the expense of the characters of prince and
potentate. "There is the Grand Master of the Templars," he continued,
"undaunted, skilful, brave in battle, and sage in council, having no
separate kingdoms of his own to divert his exertions from the recovery
of the Holy Land--what thinks your Majesty of the Master as a general
leader of the Christian host?"

"Ha, Beau-Seant?" answered the King. "Oh, no exception can be taken to
Brother Giles Amaury; he understands the ordering of a battle, and the
fighting in front when it begins. But, Sir Thomas, were it fair to take
the Holy Land from the heathen Saladin, so full of all the virtues which
may distinguish unchristened man, and give it to Giles Amaury, a worse
pagan than himself, an idolater, a devil-worshipper, a necromancer, who
practises crimes the most dark and unnatural in the vaults and secret
places of abomination and darkness?"

"The Grand Master of the Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem is not
tainted by fame, either with heresy or magic," said Thomas de Vaux.

"But is he not a sordid miser?" said Richard hastily; "has he not been
suspected--ay, more than suspected--of selling to the infidels those
advantages which they would never have won by fair force? Tush, man,
better give the army to be made merchandise of by Venetian skippers and
Lombardy pedlars, than trust it to the Grand Master of St. John."

"Well, then, I will venture but another guess," said the Baron de Vaux.
"What say you to the gallant Marquis of Montserrat, so wise, so elegant,
such a good man-at-arms?"

"Wise?--cunning, you would say," replied Richard; "elegant in a lady's
chamber, if you will. Oh, ay, Conrade of Montserrat--who knows not the
popinjay? Politic and versatile, he will change you his purposes as
often as the trimmings of his doublet, and you shall never be able to
guess the hue of his inmost vestments from their outward colours. A
man-at-arms? Ay, a fine figure on horseback, and can bear him well in
the tilt-yard, and at the barriers, when swords are blunted at point
and edge, and spears are tipped with trenchers of wood instead of steel
pikes. Wert thou not with me when I said to that same gay Marquis, 'Here
we be, three good Christians, and on yonder plain there pricks a band of
some threescore Saracens--what say you to charge them briskly? There are
but twenty unbelieving miscreants to each true knight."

"I recollect the Marquis replied," said De Vaux, "that his limbs were
of flesh, not of iron, and that he would rather bear the heart of a
man than of a beast, though that beast were the lion, But I see how
it is--we shall end where we began, without hope of praying at the
Sepulchre until Heaven shall restore King Richard to health."

At this grave remark Richard burst out into a hearty fit of laughter,
the first which he had for some time indulged in. "Why what a thing is
conscience," he said, "that through its means even such a thick-witted
northern lord as thou canst bring thy sovereign to confess his folly!
It is true that, did they not propose themselves as fit to hold my
leading-staff, little should I care for plucking the silken trappings
off the puppets thou hast shown me in succession. What concerns it me
what fine tinsel robes they swagger in, unless when they are named as
rivals in the glorious enterprise to which I have vowed myself? Yes,
De Vaux, I confess my weakness, and the wilfulness of my ambition. The
Christian camp contains, doubtless, many a better knight than Richard of
England, and it would be wise and worthy to assign to the best of them
the leading of the host. But," continued the warlike monarch, raising
himself in his bed, and shaking the cover from his head, while his eyes
sparkled as they were wont to do on the eve of battle, "were such a
knight to plant the banner of the Cross on the Temple of Jerusalem while
I was unable to bear my share in the noble task, he should, so soon as I
was fit to lay lance in rest, undergo my challenge to mortal combat,
for having diminished my fame, and pressed in before to the object of my
enterprise. But hark, what trumpets are those at a distance?"

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

"Thou art dull of ear, Thomas," said the King, endeavouring to start up;
"hearest thou not that clash and clang? By Heaven, the Turks are in the
camp--I hear their LELIES." [The war-cries of the Moslemah.]

He again endeavoured to get out of bed, and De Vaux was obliged to
exercise his own great strength, and also to summon the assistance of
the chamberlains from the inner tent, to restrain him.

"Thou art a false traitor, De Vaux," said the incensed monarch, when,
breathless and exhausted with struggling, he was compelled to submit
to superior strength, and to repose in quiet on his couch. "I would I
were--I would I were but strong enough to dash thy brains out with my
battle-axe!"

"I would you had the strength, my liege," said De Vaux, "and would
even take the risk of its being so employed. The odds would be great in
favour of Christendom were Thomas Multon dead and Coeur de Lion himself
again."

"Mine honest faithful servant," said Richard, extending his hand, which
the baron reverentially saluted, "forgive thy master's impatience of
mood. It is this burning fever which chides thee, and not thy kind
master, Richard of England. But go, I prithee, and bring me word what
strangers are in the camp, for these sounds are not of Christendom."

De Vaux left the pavilion on the errand assigned, and in his absence,
which he had resolved should be brief, he charged the chamberlains,
pages, and attendants to redouble their attention on their sovereign,
with threats of holding them to responsibility, which rather added to
than diminished their timid anxiety in the discharge of their duty; for
next, perhaps, to the ire of the monarch himself, they dreaded that
of the stern and inexorable Lord of Gilsland. [Sir Thomas Multon of
Gilsland.]

CHAPTER VII.

     There never was a time on the march parts yet,
     When Scottish with English met,
     But it was marvel if the red blood ran not
     As the rain does in the street.
     --BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.

A considerable band of Scottish warriors had joined the Crusaders,
and had naturally placed themselves under the command of the English
monarch, being, like his native troops, most of them of Saxon and
Norman descent, speaking the same languages, possessed, some of them, of
English as well as Scottish demesnes, and allied in some cases by blood
and intermarriage. The period also preceded that when the grasping
ambition of Edward I. gave a deadly and envenomed character to the wars
betwixt the two nations--the English fighting for the subjugation
of Scotland, and the Scottish, with all the stern determination and
obstinacy which has ever characterized their nation, for the defence
of their independence, by the most violent means, under the most
disadvantageous circumstances, and at the most extreme hazard. As yet,
wars betwixt the two nations, though fierce and frequent, had been
conducted on principles of fair hostility, and admitted of those
softening shades by which courtesy and the respect for open and generous
foemen qualify and mitigate the horrors of war. In time of peace,
therefore, and especially when both, as at present, were engaged in war,
waged in behalf of a common cause, and rendered dear to them by their
ideas of religion, the adventurers of both countries frequently fought
side by side, their national emulation serving only to stimulate them to
excel each other in their efforts against the common enemy.

The frank and martial character of Richard, who made no distinction
betwixt his own subjects and those of William of Scotland, excepting as
they bore themselves in the field of battle, tended much to
conciliate the troops of both nations. But upon his illness, and the
disadvantageous circumstances in which the Crusaders were placed, the
national disunion between the various bands united in the Crusade, began
to display itself, just as old wounds break out afresh in the human body
when under the influence of disease or debility.

The Scottish and English, equally jealous and high-spirited, and apt to
take offence--the former the more so, because the poorer and the weaker
nation--began to fill up by internal dissension the period when the
truce forbade them to wreak their united vengeance on the Saracens.
Like the contending Roman chiefs of old, the Scottish would admit no
superiority, and their southern neighbours would brook no equality.
There were charges and recriminations, and both the common soldiery
and their leaders and commanders, who had been good comrades in time of
victory, lowered on each other in the period of adversity, as if their
union had not been then more essential than ever, not only to the
success of their common cause, but to their joint safety. The same
disunion had begun to show itself betwixt the French and English, the
Italians and the Germans, and even between the Danes and Swedes; but it
is only that which divided the two nations whom one island bred, and who
seemed more animated against each other for the very reason, that our
narrative is principally concerned with.

Of all the English nobles who had followed their King to Palestine,
De Vaux was most prejudiced against the Scottish. They were his near
neighbours, with whom he had been engaged during his whole life in
private or public warfare, and on whom he had inflicted many calamities,
while he had sustained at their hands not a few. His love and devotion
to the King was like the vivid affection of the old English mastiff to
his master, leaving him churlish and inaccessible to all others even
towards those to whom he was indifferent--and rough and dangerous to
any against whom he entertained a prejudice. De Vaux had never observed
without jealousy and displeasure his King exhibit any mark of courtesy
or favour to the wicked, deceitful, and ferocious race born on the
other side of a river, or an imaginary line drawn through waste and
wilderness; and he even doubted the success of a Crusade in which they
were suffered to bear arms, holding them in his secret soul little
better than the Saracens whom he came to combat. It may be added that,
as being himself a blunt and downright Englishman, unaccustomed
to conceal the slightest movement either of love or of dislike, he
accounted the fair-spoken courtesy which the Scots had learned, either
from imitation of their frequent allies, the French, or which might
have arisen from their own proud and reserved character, as a false and
astucious mark of the most dangerous designs against their neighbours,
over whom he believed, with genuine English confidence, they could, by
fair manhood, never obtain any advantage.

Yet, though De Vaux entertained these sentiments concerning his Northern
neighbours, and extended them, with little mitigation, even to such as
had assumed the Cross, his respect for the King, and a sense of the duty
imposed by his vow as a Crusader, prevented him from displaying them
otherwise than by regularly shunning all intercourse with his Scottish
brethren-at-arms as far as possible, by observing a sullen taciturnity
when compelled to meet them occasionally, and by looking scornfully upon
them when they encountered on the march and in camp. The Scottish barons
and knights were not men to bear his scorn unobserved or unreplied to;
and it came to that pass that he was regarded as the determined and
active enemy of a nation, whom, after all, he only disliked, and in some
sort despised. Nay, it was remarked by close observers that, if he had
not towards them the charity of Scripture, which suffereth long, and
judges kindly, he was by no means deficient in the subordinate and
limited virtue, which alleviates and relieves the wants of others.
The wealth of Thomas of Gilsland procured supplies of provisions and
medicines, and some of these usually flowed by secret channels into
the quarters of the Scottish--his surly benevolence proceeding on the
principle that, next to a man's friend, his foe was of most importance
to him, passing over all the intermediate relations as too indifferent
to merit even a thought. This explanation is necessary, in order that
the reader may fully understand what we are now to detail.

Thomas de Vaux had not made many steps beyond the entrance of the royal
pavilion when he was aware of what the far more acute ear of the English
monarch--no mean proficient in the art of minstrelsy--had instantly
discovered, that the musical strains, namely, which had reached their
ears, were produced by the pipes, shalms, and kettle-drums of the
Saracens; and at the bottom of an avenue of tents, which formed a broad
access to the pavilion of Richard, he could see a crowd of idle soldiers
assembled around the spot from which the music was heard, almost in the
centre of the camp; and he saw, with great surprise, mingled amid the
helmets of various forms worn by the Crusaders of different nations,
white turbans and long pikes, announcing the presence of armed
Saracens, and the huge deformed heads of several camels or dromedaries,
overlooking the multitude by aid of their long, disproportioned necks.

Wondering, and displeased at a sight so unexpected and singular--for it
was customary to leave all flags of truce and other communications from
the enemy at an appointed place without the barriers--the baron looked
eagerly round for some one of whom he might inquire the cause of this
alarming novelty.

The first person whom he met advancing to him he set down at once, by
his grave and haughty step, as a Spaniard or a Scot; and presently after
muttered to himself, "And a Scot it is--he of the Leopard. I have seen
him fight indifferently well, for one of his country."

Loath to ask even a passing question, he was about to pass Sir Kenneth,
with that sullen and lowering port which seems to say, "I know thee, but
I will hold no communication with thee." But his purpose was defeated
by the Northern Knight, who moved forward directly to him, and accosting
him with formal courtesy, said, "My Lord de Vaux of Gilsland, I have in
charge to speak with you."

"Ha!" returned the English baron, "with me? But say your pleasure, so it
be shortly spoken--I am on the King's errand."

"Mine touches King Richard yet more nearly," answered Sir Kenneth; "I
bring him, I trust, health."

The Lord of Gilsland measured the Scot with incredulous eyes, and
replied, "Thou art no leech, I think, Sir Scot; I had as soon thought of
your bringing the King of England wealth."

Sir Kenneth, though displeased with the manner of the baron's
reply, answered calmly, "Health to Richard is glory and wealth to
Christendom.--But my time presses; I pray you, may I see the King?"

"Surely not, fair sir," said the baron, "until your errand be told more
distinctly. The sick chambers of princes open not to all who inquire,
like a northern hostelry."

"My lord," said Kenneth, "the cross which I wear in common with
yourself, and the importance of what I have to tell, must, for the
present, cause me to pass over a bearing which else I were unapt to
endure. In plain language, then, I bring with me a Moorish physician,
who undertakes to work a cure on King Richard."

"A Moorish physician!" said De Vaux; "and who will warrant that he
brings not poisons instead of remedies?"

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

"I have known many a resolute ruffian," said De Vaux, "who valued his
own life as little as it deserved, and would troop to the gallows as
merrily as if the hangman were his partner in a dance."

"But thus it is, my lord," replied the Scot. "Saladin, to whom none will
deny the credit of a generous and valiant enemy, hath sent this
leech hither with an honourable retinue and guard, befitting the high
estimation in which El Hakim [The Physician] is held by the Soldan, and
with fruits and refreshments for the King's private chamber, and such
message as may pass betwixt honourable enemies, praying him to be
recovered of his fever, that he may be the fitter to receive a visit
from the Soldan, with his naked scimitar in his hand, and a hundred
thousand cavaliers at his back. Will it please you, who are of the
King's secret council, to cause these camels to be discharged of
their burdens, and some order taken as to the reception of the learned
physician?"

"Wonderful!" said De Vaux, as speaking to himself.--"And who will vouch
for the honour of Saladin, in a case when bad faith would rid him at
once of his most powerful adversary?"

"I myself," replied Sir Kenneth, "will be his guarantee, with honour,
life, and fortune."

"Strange!" again ejaculated De Vaux; "the North vouches for the
South--the Scot for the Turk! May I crave of you, Sir Knight, how you
became concerned in this affair?"

"I have been absent on a pilgrimage, in the course of which," replied
Sir Kenneth "I had a message to discharge towards the holy hermit of
Engaddi."

"May I not be entrusted with it, Sir Kenneth, and with the answer of the
holy man?"

"It may not be, my lord," answered the Scot.

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

"To which land I owe no allegiance," said Kenneth. "Though I have
voluntarily followed in this war the personal fortunes of England's
sovereign, I was dispatched by the General Council of the kings,
princes, and supreme leaders of the army of the Blessed Cross, and to
them only I render my errand."

"Ha! sayest thou?" said the proud Baron de Vaux. "But know, messenger
of the kings and princes as thou mayest be, no leech shall approach the
sick-bed of Richard of England without the consent of him of Gilsland;
and they will come on evil errand who dare to intrude themselves against
it."

He was turning loftily away, when the Scot, placing himself closer, and
more opposite to him, asked, in a calm voice, yet not without expressing
his share of pride, whether the Lord of Gilsland esteemed him a
gentleman and a good knight.

"All Scots are ennobled by their birthright," answered Thomas de Vaux,
something ironically; but sensible of his own injustice, and perceiving
that Kenneth's colour rose, he added, "For a good knight it were sin to
doubt you, in one at least who has seen you well and bravely discharge
your devoir."

"Well, then," said the Scottish knight, satisfied with the frankness of
the last admission, "and let me swear to you, Thomas of Gilsland, that,
as I am true Scottish man, which I hold a privilege equal to my ancient
gentry, and as sure as I am a belted knight, and come hither to acquire
LOS [Los--laus, praise, or renown] and fame in this mortal life, and
forgiveness of my sins in that which is to come--so truly, and by the
blessed Cross which I wear, do I protest unto you that I desire but the
safety of Richard Coeur de Lion, in recommending the ministry of this
Moslem physician."

The Englishman was struck with the solemnity of the obtestation, and
answered with more cordiality than he had yet exhibited, "Tell me, Sir
Knight of the Leopard, granting (which I do not doubt) that thou art
thyself satisfied in this matter, shall I do well, in a land where the
art of poisoning is as general as that of cooking, to bring this
unknown physician to practise with his drugs on a health so valuable to
Christendom?"

"My lord," replied the Scot, "thus only can I reply--that my squire, the
only one of my retinue whom war and disease had left in attendance on
me, has been of late suffering dangerously under this same fever, which,
in valiant King Richard, has disabled the principal limb of our holy
enterprise. This leech, this El Hakim, hath ministered remedies to him
not two hours since, and already he hath fallen into a refreshing sleep.
That he can cure the disorder, which has proved so fatal, I nothing
doubt; that he hath the purpose to do it is, I think, warranted by his
mission from the royal Soldan, who is true-hearted and loyal, so far as
a blinded infidel may be called so; and for his eventual success, the
certainty of reward in case of succeeding, and punishment in case of
voluntary failure, may be a sufficient guarantee."

The Englishman listened with downcast looks, as one who doubted, yet was
not unwilling to receive conviction. At length he looked up and said,
"May I see your sick squire, fair sir?"

The Scottish knight hesitated and coloured, yet answered at last,
"Willingly, my Lord of Gilsland. But you must remember, when you see my
poor quarter, that the nobles and knights of Scotland feed not so high,
sleep not so soft, and care not for the magnificence of lodgment which
is Proper to their southern neighbours. I am POORLY lodged, my Lord of
Gilsland," he added, with a haughty emphasis on the word, while, with
some unwillingness, he led the way to his temporary place of abode.

Whatever were the prejudices of De Vaux against the nation of his new
acquaintance, and though we undertake not to deny that some of these
were excited by its proverbial poverty, he had too much nobleness
of disposition to enjoy the mortification of a brave individual
thus compelled to make known wants which his pride would gladly have
concealed.

"Shame to the soldier of the Cross," he said, "who thinks of worldly
splendour, or of luxurious accommodation, when pressing forward to
the conquest of the Holy City. Fare as hard as we may, we shall yet be
better than the host of martyrs and of saints, who, having trod these
scenes before us, now hold golden lamps and evergreen palms."

This was the most metaphorical speech which Thomas of Gilsland was ever
known to utter, the rather, perhaps (as will sometimes happen), that it
did not entirely express his own sentiments, being somewhat a lover of
good cheer and splendid accommodation. By this time they reached the
place of the camp where the Knight of the Leopard had assumed his abode.

Appearances here did indeed promise no breach of the laws of
mortification, to which the Crusaders, according to the opinion
expressed by him of Gilsland, ought to subject themselves. A space of
ground, large enough to accommodate perhaps thirty tents, according to
the Crusaders' rules of castrametation, was partly vacant--because,
in ostentation, the knight had demanded ground to the extent of his
original retinue--partly occupied by a few miserable huts, hastily
constructed of boughs, and covered with palm-leaves. These habitations
seemed entirely deserted, and several of them were ruinous. The central
hut, which represented the pavilion of the leader, was distinguished by
his swallow-tailed pennon, placed on the point of a spear, from which
its long folds dropped motionless to the ground, as if sickening under
the scorching rays of the Asiatic sun. But no pages or squires--not even
a solitary warder--was placed by the emblem of feudal power and knightly
degree. If its reputation defended it not from insult, it had no other
guard.

Sir Kenneth cast a melancholy look around him, but suppressing his
feelings, entered the hut, making a sign to the Baron of Gilsland to
follow. He also cast around a glance of examination, which implied pity
not altogether unmingled with contempt, to which, perhaps, it is as
nearly akin as it is said to be to love. He then stooped his lofty
crest, and entered a lowly hut, which his bulky form seemed almost
entirely to fill.

The interior of the hut was chiefly occupied by two beds. One was empty,
but composed of collected leaves, and spread with an antelope's hide. It
seemed, from the articles of armour laid beside it, and from a crucifix
of silver, carefully and reverentially disposed at the head, to be the
couch of the knight himself. The other contained the invalid, of whom
Sir Kenneth had spoken, a strong-built and harsh-featured man, past, as
his looks betokened, the middle age of life. His couch was trimmed
more softly than his master's, and it was plain that the more courtly
garments of the latter, the loose robe in which the knights showed
themselves on pacific occasions, and the other little spare articles
of dress and adornment, had been applied by Sir Kenneth to the
accommodation of his sick domestic. In an outward part of the hut,
which yet was within the range of the English baron's eye, a boy,
rudely attired with buskins of deer's hide, a blue cap or bonnet, and a
doublet, whose original finery was much tarnished, sat on his knees by
a chafing-dish filled with charcoal, cooking upon a plate of iron the
cakes of barley-bread, which were then, and still are, a favourite food
with the Scottish people. Part of an antelope was suspended against one
of the main props of the hut. Nor was it difficult to know how it had
been procured; for a large stag greyhound, nobler in size and appearance
than those even which guarded King Richard's sick-bed, lay eyeing
the process of baking the cake. The sagacious animal, on their first
entrance, uttered a stifled growl, which sounded from his deep chest
like distant thunder. But he saw his master, and acknowledged his
presence by wagging his tail and couching his head, abstaining from more
tumultuous or noisy greeting, as if his noble instinct had taught him
the propriety of silence in a sick man's chamber.

Beside the couch sat on a cushion, also composed of skins, the Moorish
physician of whom Sir Kenneth had spoken, cross-legged, after the
Eastern fashion. The imperfect light showed little of him, save that
the lower part of his face was covered with a long, black beard, which
descended over his breast; that he wore a high TOLPACH, a Tartar cap of
the lamb's wool manufactured at Astracan, bearing the same dusky colour;
and that his ample caftan, or Turkish robe, was also of a dark hue.
Two piercing eyes, which gleamed with unusual lustre, were the only
lineaments of his visage that could be discerned amid the darkness in
which he was enveloped.

The English lord stood silent with a sort of reverential awe; for
notwithstanding the roughness of his general bearing, a scene of
distress and poverty, firmly endured without complaint or murmur, would
at any time have claimed more reverence from Thomas de Vaux than would
all the splendid formalities of a royal presence-chamber, unless that
presence-chamber were King Richard's own. Nothing was for a time heard
but the heavy and regular breathings of the invalid, who seemed in
profound repose.

"He hath not slept for six nights before," said Sir Kenneth, "as I am
assured by the youth, his attendant."

"Noble Scot," said Thomas de Vaux, grasping the Scottish knight's hand,
with a pressure which had more of cordiality than he permitted his words
to utter, "this gear must be amended. Your esquire is but too evil fed
and looked to."

In the latter part of this speech he naturally raised his voice to its
usual decided tone, The sick man was disturbed in his slumbers.

"My master," he said, murmuring as in a dream, "noble Sir Kenneth, taste
not, to you as to me, the waters of the Clyde cold and refreshing after
the brackish springs of Palestine?"

"He dreams of his native land, and is happy in his slumbers," whispered
Sir Kenneth to De Vaux; but had scarce uttered the words, when the
physician, arising from the place which he had taken near the couch of
the sick, and laying the hand of the patient, whose pulse he had been
carefully watching, quietly upon the couch, came to the two knights,
and taking them each by the arm, while he intimated to them to remain
silent, led them to the front of the hut.

"In the name of Issa Ben Mariam," he said, "whom we honour as you,
though not with the same blinded superstition, disturb not the effect
of the blessed medicine of which he hath partaken. To awaken him now is
death or deprivation of reason; but return at the hour when the muezzin
calls from the minaret to evening prayer in the mosque, and if left
undisturbed until then, I promise you this same Frankish soldier shall
be able, without prejudice to his health, to hold some brief converse
with you on any matters on which either, and especially his master, may
have to question him."

The knights retreated before the authoritative commands of the leech,
who seemed fully to comprehend the importance of the Eastern proverb
that the sick chamber of the patient is the kingdom of the physician.

They paused, and remained standing together at the door of the hut--Sir
Kenneth with the air of one who expected his visitor to say farewell,
and De Vaux as if he had something on his mind which prevented him from
doing so. The hound, however, had pressed out of the tent after them,
and now thrust his long, rough countenance into the hand of his master,
as if modestly soliciting some mark of his kindness. He had no sooner
received the notice which he desired, in the shape of a kind word and
slight caress, than, eager to acknowledge his gratitude and joy for his
master's return, he flew off at full speed, galloping in full career,
and with outstretched tail, here and there, about and around, cross-ways
and endlong, through the decayed huts and the esplanade we have
described, but never transgressing those precincts which his sagacity
knew were protected by his master's pennon. After a few gambols of this
kind, the dog, coming close up to his master, laid at once aside his
frolicsome mood, relapsed into his usual gravity and slowness of gesture
and deportment, and looked as if he were ashamed that anything should
have moved him to depart so far out of his sober self-control.

Both knights looked on with pleasure; for Sir Kenneth was justly proud
of his noble hound, and the northern English baron was, of course, an
admirer of the chase, and a judge of the animal's merits.

"A right able dog," he said. "I think, fair sir, King Richard hath not
an ALAN which may match him, if he be as stanch as he is swift. But let
me pray you--speaking in all honour and kindness--have you not heard the
proclamation that no one under the rank of earl shall keep hunting dogs
within King Richard's camp without the royal license, which, I think,
Sir Kenneth, hath not been issued to you? I speak as Master of the
Horse."

"And I answer as a free Scottish knight," said Kenneth sternly. "For
the present I follow the banner of England, but I cannot remember that I
have ever subjected myself to the forest-laws of that kingdom, nor have
I such respect for them as would incline me to do so. When the trumpet
sounds to arms, my foot is in the stirrup as soon as any--when it clangs
for the charge, my lance has not yet been the last laid in the rest. But
for my hours of liberty or of idleness King Richard has no title to bar
my recreation."

"Nevertheless," said De Vaux, "it is a folly to disobey the King's
ordinance; so, with your good leave, I, as having authority in that
matter, will send you a protection for my friend here."

"I thank you," said the Scot coldly; "but he knows my allotted quarters,
and within these I can protect him myself.--And yet," he said, suddenly
changing his manner, "this is but a cold return for a well-meant
kindness. I thank you, my lord, most heartily. The King's equerries
or prickers might find Roswal at disadvantage, and do him some injury,
which I should not, perhaps, be slow in returning, and so ill might come
of it. You have seen so much of my house-keeping, my lord," he added,
with a smile, "that I need not shame to say that Roswal is our principal
purveyor, and well I hope our Lion Richard will not be like the lion
in the minstrel fable, that went a-hunting, and kept the whole booty to
himself. I cannot think he would grudge a poor gentleman, who follows
him faithfully, his hour of sport and his morsel of game, more
especially when other food is hard enough to come by."

"By my faith, you do the King no more than justice; and yet," said the
baron, "there is something in these words, vert and venison, that turns
the very brains of our Norman princes."

"We have heard of late," said the Scot, "by minstrels and pilgrims, that
your outlawed yeomen have formed great bands in the shires of York and
Nottingham, having at their head a most stout archer, called Robin Hood,
with his lieutenant, Little John. Methinks it were better that Richard
relaxed his forest-code in England, than endeavour to enforce it in the
Holy Land."

"Wild work, Sir Kenneth," replied De Vaux, shrugging his shoulders, as
one who would avoid a perilous or unpleasing topic--"a mad world, sir.
I must now bid you adieu, having presently to return to the King's
pavilion. At vespers I will again, with your leave, visit your quarters,
and speak with this same infidel physician. I would, in the meantime,
were it no offence, willingly send you what would somewhat mend your
cheer."

"I thank you, sir," said Sir Kenneth, "but it needs not. Roswal hath
already stocked my larder for two weeks, since the sun of Palestine, if
it brings diseases, serves also to dry venison."

The two warriors parted much better friends than they had met; but ere
they separated, Thomas de Vaux informed himself at more length of
the circumstances attending the mission of the Eastern physician, and
received from the Scottish knight the credentials which he had brought
to King Richard on the part of Saladin.

CHAPTER VIII.

     A wise physician, skilled our wounds to heal,
     Is more than armies to the common weal.
       POPE'S ILLIAD.

"This is a strange tale, Sir Thomas," said the sick monarch, when he had
heard the report of the trusty Baron of Gilsland. "Art thou sure this
Scottish man is a tall man and true?"

"I cannot say, my lord," replied the jealous Borderer. "I live a little
too near the Scots to gather much truth among them, having found them
ever fair and false. But this man's bearing is that of a true man,
were he a devil as well as a Scot; that I must needs say for him in
conscience."

"And for his carriage as a knight, how sayest thou, De Vaux?" demanded
the King.

"It is your Majesty's business more than mine to note men's bearings;
and I warrant you have noted the manner in which this man of the Leopard
hath borne himself. He hath been full well spoken of."

"And justly, Thomas," said the King. "We have ourselves witnessed him.
It is indeed our purpose in placing ourselves ever in the front of
battle, to see how our liegemen and followers acquit themselves, and
not from a desire to accumulate vainglory to ourselves, as some have
supposed. We know the vanity of the praise of man, which is but a
vapour, and buckle on our armour for other purposes than to win it."

De Vaux was alarmed when he heard the King make a declaration so
inconsistent with his nature, and believed at first that nothing short
of the approach of death could have brought him to speak in depreciating
terms of military renown, which was the very breath of his nostrils. But
recollecting he had met the royal confessor in the outer pavilion, he
was shrewd enough to place this temporary self-abasement to the effect
of the reverend man's lesson, and suffered the King to proceed without
reply.

"Yes," continued Richard, "I have indeed marked the manner in which this
knight does his devoir. My leading-staff were not worth a fool's bauble
had he escaped my notice; and he had ere now tasted of our bounty, but
that I have also marked his overweening and audacious presumption."

"My liege," said the Baron of Gilsland, observing the King's countenance
change, "I fear I have transgressed your pleasure in lending some
countenance to his transgression."

"How, De Multon, thou?" said the King, contracting his brows, and
speaking in a tone of angry surprise. "Thou countenance his insolence?
It cannot be."

"Nay, your Majesty will pardon me to remind you that I have by mine
office right to grant liberty to men of gentle blood to keep them a
hound or two within camp, just to cherish the noble art of venerie; and
besides, it were a sin to have maimed or harmed a thing so noble as this
gentleman's dog."

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

"A most perfect creature of Heaven," said the baron, who was an
enthusiast in field-sports--"of the noblest Northern breed--deep in the
chest, strong in the stern--black colour, and brindled on the breast
and legs, not spotted with white, but just shaded into grey--strength to
pull down a bull, swiftness to cote an antelope."

The King laughed at his enthusiasm. "Well, thou hast given him leave to
keep the hound, so there is an end of it. Be not, however, liberal of
your licenses among those knights adventurers who have no prince or
leader to depend upon; they are ungovernable, and leave no game in
Palestine.--But to this piece of learned heathenesse--sayest thou the
Scot met him in the desert?"

"No, my liege; the Scot's tale runs thus. He was dispatched to the old
hermit of Engaddi, of whom men talk so much--"

"'Sdeath and hell!" said Richard, starting up. "By whom dispatched,
and for what? Who dared send any one thither, when our Queen was in the
Convent of Engaddi, upon her pilgrimage for our recovery?"

"The Council of the Crusade sent him, my lord," answered the Baron de
Vaux; "for what purpose, he declined to account to me. I think it is
scarce known in the camp that your royal consort is on a pilgrimage;
and even the princes may not have been aware, as the Queen has been
sequestered from company since your love prohibited her attendance in
case of infection."

"Well, it shall be looked into," said Richard. "So this Scottish
man, this envoy, met with a wandering physician at the grotto of
Engaddi--ha?"

"Not so my liege," replied De Vaux? "but he met, I think, near that
place, with a Saracen Emir with whom he had some MELEE in the way of
proof of valour, and finding him worthy to bear brave men company, they
went together, as errant knights are wont, to the grotto of Engaddi."

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

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

"No, my liege," replied De Vaux; "but the Saracen, learning your
Majesty's grievous illness, undertook that Saladin should send his own
physician to you, and with many assurances of his eminent skill; and he
came to the grotto accordingly, after the Scottish knight had tarried a
day for him and more. He is attended as if he were a prince, with drums
and atabals, and servants on horse and foot, and brings with him letters
of credence from Saladin."

"Have they been examined by Giacomo Loredani?"

"I showed them to the interpreter ere bringing them hither, and behold
their contents in English."

Richard took a scroll, in which were inscribed these words: The blessing
of Allah and his Prophet Mohammed ["Out upon the hound!" said Richard,
spitting in contempt, by way of interjection], Saladin, king of kings,
Saldan of Egypt and of Syria, the light and refuge of the earth, to the
great Melech Ric, Richard of England, greeting. Whereas, we have been
informed that the hand of sickness hath been heavy upon thee, our royal
brother, and that thou hast with thee only such Nazarene and Jewish
mediciners as work without the blessing of Allah and our holy Prophet
["Confusion on his head!" again muttered the English monarch], we have
therefore sent to tend and wait upon thee at this time the physician
to our own person, Adonbec el Hakim, before whose face the angel Azrael
[The Angel of Death.] spreads his wings and departs from the sick
chamber; who knows the virtues of herbs and stones, the path of the sun,
moon, and stars, and can save man from all that is not written on his
forehead. And this we do, praying you heartily to honour and make use
of his skill; not only that we may do service to thy worth and valour,
which is the glory of all the nations of Frangistan, but that we may
bring the controversy which is at present between us to an end, either
by honourable agreement, or by open trial thereof with our weapons, in a
fair field--seeing that it neither becomes thy place and courage to die
the death of a slave who hath been overwrought by his taskmaster, nor
befits it our fame that a brave adversary be snatched from our weapon by
such a disease. And, therefore, may the holy--"

"Hold, hold," said Richard, "I will have no more of his dog of a
prophet! It makes me sick to think the valiant and worthy Soldan should
believe in a dead dog. Yes, I will see his physician. I will put
myself into the charge of this Hakim--I will repay the noble Soldan
his generosity--I will meet Saladin in the field, as he so worthily
proposes, and he shall have no cause to term Richard of England
ungrateful. I will strike him to the earth with my battle-axe--I will
convert him to Holy Church with such blows as he has rarely endured. He
shall recant his errors before my good cross-handled sword, and I will
have him baptized on the battle-field, from my own helmet, though the
cleansing waters were mixed with the blood of us both.--Haste, De Vaux,
why dost thou delay a conclusion so pleasing? Fetch the Hakim hither."

"My lord," said the baron, who perhaps saw some accession of fever in
this overflow of confidence, "bethink you, the Soldan is a pagan, and
that you are his most formidable enemy--"

"For which reason he is the more bound to do me service in this matter,
lest a paltry fever end the quarrel betwixt two such kings. I tell thee
he loves me as I love him--as noble adversaries ever love each other. By
my honour, it were sin to doubt his good faith!"

"Nevertheless, my lord, it were well to wait the issue of these
medicines upon the Scottish squire," said the Lord of Gilsland. "My own
life depends upon it, for worthy were I to die like a dog did I proceed
rashly in this matter, and make shipwreck of the weal of Christendom."

"I never knew thee before hesitate for fear of life," said Richard
upbraidingly.

"Nor would I now, my liege," replied the stout-hearted baron, "save that
yours lies at pledge as well as my own."

"Well, thou suspicious mortal," answered Richard, "begone then, and
watch the progress of this remedy. I could almost wish it might either
cure or kill me, for I am weary of lying here like an ox dying of
the murrain, when tambours are beating, horses stamping, and trumpets
sounding without."

The baron hastily departed, resolved, however, to communicate his errand
to some churchman, as he felt something burdened in conscience at the
idea of his master being attended by an unbeliever.

The Archbishop of Tyre was the first to whom he confided his doubts,
knowing his interest with his master, Richard, who both loved and
honoured that sagacious prelate. The bishop heard the doubts which De
Vaux stated, with that acuteness of intelligence which distinguishes the
Roman Catholic clergy. The religious scruples of De Vaux he treated
with as much lightness as propriety permitted him to exhibit on such a
subject to a layman.

"Mediciners," he said, "like the medicines which they employed, were
often useful, though the one were by birth or manners the vilest of
humanity, as the others are, in many cases, extracted from the basest
materials. Men may use the assistance of pagans and infidels," he
continued, "in their need, and there is reason to think that one cause
of their being permitted to remain on earth is that they might minister
to the convenience of true Christians. Thus we lawfully make slaves of
heathen captives. Again," proceeded the prelate, "there is no doubt that
the primitive Christians used the services of the unconverted heathen.
Thus in the ship of Alexandria, in which the blessed Apostle Paul sailed
to Italy, the sailors were doubtless pagans; yet what said the holy
saint when their ministry was needful?--'NISI HI IN NAVI MANSERINT, VOS
SALVI FIERI NON POTESTIS'--Unless these men abide in the ship, ye
cannot be saved. Again, Jews are infidels to Christianity, as well as
Mohammedans. But there are few physicians in the camp excepting Jews,
and such are employed without scandal or scruple. Therefore,
Mohammedans may be used for their service in that capacity--QUOD ERAT
DEMONSTRANDUM."

This reasoning entirely removed the scruples of Thomas de Vaux, who was
particularly moved by the Latin quotation, as he did not understand a
word of it.

But the bishop proceeded with far less fluency when he considered the
possibility of the Saracen's acting with bad faith; and here he came not
to a speedy decision. The baron showed him the letters of credence. He
read and re-read them, and compared the original with the translation.

"It is a dish choicely cooked," he said, "to the palate of King Richard,
and I cannot but have my suspicions of the wily Saracen. They are
curious in the art of poisons, and can so temper them that they shall
be weeks in acting upon the party, during which time the perpetrator
has leisure to escape. They can impregnate cloth and leather, nay, even
paper and parchment, with the most subtle venom. Our Lady forgive me!
And wherefore, knowing this, hold I these letters of credence so close
to my face? Take them, Sir Thomas--take them speedily!"

Here he gave them at arm's-length, and with some appearance of haste,
to the baron. "But come, my Lord de Vaux," he continued, "wend we to the
tent of this sick squire, where we shall learn whether this Hakim hath
really the art of curing which he professeth, ere we consider whether
there be safety in permitting him to exercise his art upon King
Richard.--Yet, hold! let me first take my pouncet-box, for these fevers
spread like an infection. I would advise you to use dried rosemary
steeped in vinegar, my lord. I, too, know something of the healing art."

"I thank your reverend lordship," replied Thomas of Gilsland; "but had
I been accessible to the fever, I had caught it long since by the bed of
my master."

The Bishop of Tyre blushed, for he had rather avoided the presence of
the sick monarch; and he bid the baron lead on.

As they paused before the wretched hut in which Kenneth of the Leopard
and his follower abode, the bishop said to De Vaux, "Now, of a surety,
my lord, these Scottish Knights have worse care of their followers than
we of our dogs. Here is a knight, valiant, they say, in battle, and
thought fitting to be graced with charges of weight in time of truce,
whose esquire of the body is lodged worse than in the worst dog-kennel
in England. What say you of your neighbours?"

"That a master doth well enough for his servant when he lodgeth him in
no worse dwelling than his own," said De Vaux, and entered the hut.

The bishop followed, not without evident reluctance; for though he
lacked not courage in some respects, yet it was tempered with a strong
and lively regard for his own safety. He recollected, however, the
necessity there was for judging personally of the skill of the Arabian
physician, and entered the hut with a stateliness of manner calculated,
as he thought, to impose respect on the stranger.

The prelate was, indeed, a striking and commanding figure. In his youth
he had been eminently handsome, and even in age was unwilling to appear
less so. His episcopal dress was of the richest fashion, trimmed with
costly fur, and surrounded by a cope of curious needlework. The rings
on his fingers were worth a goodly barony, and the hood which he wore,
though now unclasped and thrown back for heat, had studs of pure gold to
fasten it around his throat and under his chin when he so inclined. His
long beard, now silvered with age, descended over his breast. One of two
youthful acolytes who attended him created an artificial shade, peculiar
then to the East, by bearing over his head an umbrella of palmetto
leaves, while the other refreshed his reverend master by agitating a fan
of peacock-feathers.

When the Bishop of Tyre entered the hut of the Scottish knight, the
master was absent, and the Moorish physician, whom he had come to see,
sat in the very posture in which De Vaux had left him several hours
before, cross-legged upon a mat made of twisted leaves, by the side of
the patient, who appeared in deep slumber, and whose pulse he felt from
time to time. The bishop remained standing before him in silence for
two or three minutes, as if expecting some honourable salutation, or
at least that the Saracen would seem struck with the dignity of his
appearance. But Adonbec el Hakim took no notice of him beyond a passing
glance, and when the prelate at length saluted him in the lingua
franca current in the country, he only replied by the ordinary Oriental
greeting, "SALAM ALICUM--Peace be with you."

"Art thou a physician, infidel?" said the bishop, somewhat mortified at
this cold reception. "I would speak with thee on that art."

"If thou knewest aught of medicine," answered El Hakim, "thou wouldst be
aware that physicians hold no counsel or debate in the sick chamber of
their patient. Hear," he added, as the low growling of the staghound was
heard from the inner hut, "even the dog might teach thee reason, Ulemat.
His instinct teaches him to suppress his barking in the sick man's
hearing. Come without the tent," said he, rising and leading the way,
"if thou hast ought to say with me."

Notwithstanding the plainness of the Saracen leech's dress, and his
inferiority of size when contrasted with the tall prelate and
gigantic English baron, there was something striking in his manner and
countenance, which prevented the Bishop of Tyre from expressing strongly
the displeasure he felt at this unceremonious rebuke. When without the
hut, he gazed upon Adonbec in silence for several minutes before he
could fix on the best manner to renew the conversation. No locks were
seen under the high bonnet of the Arabian, which hid also part of a brow
that seemed lofty and expanded, smooth, and free from wrinkles, as were
his cheeks, where they were seen under the shade of his long beard. We
have elsewhere noticed the piercing quality of his dark eyes.

The prelate, struck with his apparent youth, at length broke a pause,
which the other seemed in no haste to interrupt, by demanding of the
Arabian how old he was?

"The years of ordinary men," said the Saracen, "are counted by their
wrinkles; those of sages by their studies. I dare not call myself older
than a hundred revolutions of the Hegira." [Meaning that his attainments
were those which might have been made in a hundred years.]

The Baron of Gilsland, who took this for a literal assertion that he was
a century old, looked doubtfully upon the prelate, who, though he better
understood the meaning of El Hakim, answered his glance by mysteriously
shaking his head. He resumed an air of importance when he again
authoritatively demanded what evidence Adonbec could produce of his
medical proficiency.

"Ye have the word of the mighty Saladin," said the sage, touching his
cap in sign of reverence--"a word which was never broken towards friend
or foe. What, Nazarene, wouldst thou demand more?"

"I would have ocular proof of thy skill," said the baron, "and without
it thou approachest not to the couch of King Richard."

"The praise of the physician," said the Arabian, "is in the recovery of
his patient. Behold this sergeant, whose blood has been dried up by the
fever which has whitened your camp with skeletons, and against which the
art of your Nazarene leeches hath been like a silken doublet against a
lance of steel. Look at his fingers and arms, wasted like the claws and
shanks of the crane. Death had this morning his clutch on him; but had
Azrael been on one side of the couch, I being on the other, his soul
should not have been left from his body. Disturb me not with further
questions, but await the critical minute, and behold in silent wonder
the marvellous event."

The physician had then recourse to his astrolabe, the oracle of Eastern
science, and watching with grave precision until the precise time of the
evening prayer had arrived, he sunk on his knees, with his face turned
to Mecca, and recited the petitions which close the Moslemah's day of
toil. The bishop and the English baron looked on each other, meanwhile,
with symptoms of contempt and indignation, but neither judged it fit to
interrupt El Hakim in his devotions, unholy as they considered them to
be.

The Arab arose from the earth, on which he had prostrated himself, and
walking into the hut where the patient lay extended, he drew a sponge
from a small silver box, dipped perhaps in some aromatic distillation,
for when he put it to the sleeper's nose, he sneezed, awoke, and looked
wildly around. He was a ghastly spectacle as he sat up almost naked on
his couch, the bones and cartilages as visible through the surface of
his skin as if they had never been clothed with flesh. His face was
long, and furrowed with wrinkles; but his eye, though it wandered at
first, became gradually more settled. He seemed to be aware of the
presence of his dignified visitors, for he attempted feebly to pull
the covering from his head in token of reverence, as he inquired, in a
subdued and submissive voice, for his master.

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

"Not perfectly, my lord," replied the squire faintly. "My sleep has been
long and full of dreams. Yet I know that you are a great English lord,
as seemeth by the red cross, and this a holy prelate, whose blessing I
crave on me a poor sinner."

"Thou hast it--BENEDICTIO DOMINI SIT VOBISCUM," said the prelate, making
the sign of the cross, but without approaching nearer to the patient's
bed.

"Your eyes witness," said the Arabian, "the fever hath been subdued.
He speaks with calmness and recollection--his pulse beats composedly as
yours--try its pulsations yourself."

The prelate declined the experiment; but Thomas of Gilsland, more
determined on making the trial, did so, and satisfied himself that the
fever was indeed gone.

"This is most wonderful," said the knight, looking to the bishop; "the
man is assuredly cured. I must conduct this mediciner presently to King
Richard's tent. What thinks your reverence?"

"Stay, let me finish one cure ere I commence another," said the Arab; "I
will pass with you when I have given my patient the second cup of this
most holy elixir."

So saying he pulled out a silver cup, and filling it with water from a
gourd which stood by the bedside, he next drew forth a small silken
bag made of network, twisted with silver, the contents of which the
bystanders could not discover, and immersing it in the cup, continued to
watch it in silence during the space of five minutes. It seemed to the
spectators as if some effervescence took place during the operation; but
if so, it instantly subsided.

"Drink," said the physician to the sick man--"sleep, and awaken free
from malady."

"And with this simple-seeming draught thou wilt undertake to cure a
monarch?" said the Bishop of Tyre.

"I have cured a beggar, as you may behold," replied the sage. "Are
the Kings of Frangistan made of other clay than the meanest of their
subjects?"

"Let us have him presently to the King," said the Baron of Gilsland. "He
hath shown that he possesses the secret which may restore his health. If
he fails to exercise it, I will put himself past the power of medicine."

As they were about to leave the hut, the sick man, raising his voice
as much as his weakness permitted, exclaimed, "Reverend father, noble
knight, and you, kind leech, if you would have me sleep and recover,
tell me in charity what is become of my dear master?"

"He is upon a distant expedition, friend," replied the prelate--"on an
honourable embassy, which may detain him for some days."

"Nay," said the Baron of Gilsland, "why deceive the poor
fellow?--Friend, thy master has returned to the camp, and you will
presently see him."

The invalid held up, as if in thankfulness, his wasted hands to Heaven,
and resisting no longer the soporiferous operation of the elixir, sunk
down in a gentle sleep.

"You are a better physician than I, Sir Thomas," said the prelate--"a
soothing falsehood is fitter for a sick-room than an unpleasing truth."

"How mean you, my reverend lord?" said De Vaux hastily. "Think you I
would tell a falsehood to save the lives of a dozen such as he?"

"You said," replied the bishop, with manifest symptoms of alarm--"you
said the esquire's master was returned--he, I mean, of the Couchant
Leopard."

"And he IS returned," said De Vaux. "I spoke with him but a few hours
since. This learned leech came in his company."

"Holy Virgin! why told you not of his return to me?" said the bishop, in
evident perturbation.

"Did I not say that this same Knight of the Leopard had returned
in company with the physician? I thought I had," replied De Vaux
carelessly. "But what signified his return to the skill of the
physician, or the cure of his Majesty?"

"Much, Sir Thomas--it signified much," said the bishop, clenching
his hands, pressing his foot against the earth, and giving signs of
impatience, as if in an involuntary manner. "But where can he be gone
now, this same knight? God be with us--here may be some fatal errors!"

"Yonder serf in the outer space," said De Vaux, not without wonder
at the bishop's emotion, "can probably tell us whither his master has
gone."

The lad was summoned, and in a language nearly incomprehensible to
them, gave them at length to understand that an officer had summoned his
master to the royal tent some time before their arrival at that of his
master. The anxiety of the bishop appeared to rise to the highest, and
became evident to De Vaux, though, neither an acute observer nor of a
suspicious temper. But with his anxiety seemed to increase his wish to
keep it subdued and unobserved. He took a hasty leave of De Vaux, who
looked after him with astonishment, and after shrugging his shoulders in
silent wonder, proceeded to conduct the Arabian physician to the tent of
King Richard.

CHAPTER IX.

     This is the prince of leeches; fever, plague,
     Cold rheum, and hot podagra, do but look on him,
     And quit their grasp upon the tortured sinews.
        ANONYMOUS.

The Baron of Gilsland walked with slow step and an anxious countenance
towards the royal pavilion. He had much diffidence of his own capacity,
except in a field of battle, and conscious of no very acute intellect,
was usually contented to wonder at circumstances which a man of livelier
imagination would have endeavoured to investigate and understand, or
at least would have made the subject of speculation. But it seemed very
extraordinary, even to him, that the attention of the bishop should have
been at once abstracted from all reflection on the marvellous cure which
they had witnessed, and upon the probability it afforded of Richard
being restored to health, by what seemed a very trivial piece of
information announcing the motions of a beggardly Scottish knight, than
whom Thomas of Gilsland knew nothing within the circle of gentle
blood more unimportant or contemptible; and despite his usual habit
of passively beholding passing events, the baron's spirit toiled with
unwonted attempts to form conjectures on the cause.

At length the idea occurred at once to him that the whole might be a
conspiracy against King Richard, formed within the camp of the allies,
and to which the bishop, who was by some represented as a politic and
unscrupulous person, was not unlikely to have been accessory. It was
true that, in his own opinion, there existed no character so perfect as
that of his master; for Richard being the flower of chivalry, and the
chief of Christian leaders, and obeying in all points the commands of
Holy Church, De Vaux's ideas of perfection went no further. Still, he
knew that, however unworthily, it had been always his master's fate
to draw as much reproach and dislike as honour and attachment from the
display of his great qualities; and that in the very camp, and amongst
those princes bound by oath to the Crusade, were many who would have
sacrificed all hope of victory over the Saracens to the pleasure of
ruining, or at least of humbling, Richard of England.

"Wherefore," said the baron to himself, "it is in no sense impossible
that this El Hakim, with this his cure, or seeming cure, wrought on the
body of the Scottish squire, may mean nothing but a trick, to which he
of the Leopard may be accessory, and wherein the Bishop of Tyre, prelate
as he is, may have some share."

This hypothesis, indeed, could not be so easily reconciled with the
alarm manifested by the bishop on learning that, contrary to his
expectation, the Scottish knight had suddenly returned to the Crusaders'
camp. But De Vaux was influenced only by his general prejudices,
which dictated to him the assured belief that a wily Italian priest,
a false-hearted Scot, and an infidel physician, formed a set of
ingredients from which all evil, and no good, was likely to be
extracted. He resolved, however, to lay his scruples bluntly before
the King, of whose judgment he had nearly as high an opinion as of his
valour.

Meantime, events had taken place very contrary to the suppositions which
Thomas de Vaux had entertained. Scarce had he left the royal pavilion,
when, betwixt the impatience of the fever, and that which was natural
to his disposition, Richard began to murmur at his delay, and express
an earnest desire for his return. He had seen enough to try to reason
himself out of this irritation, which greatly increased his bodily
malady. He wearied his attendants by demanding from them amusements, and
the breviary of the priest, the romance of the clerk, even the harp of
his favourite minstrel, were had recourse to in vain. At length, some
two hours before sundown, and long, therefore, ere he could expect
a satisfactory account of the process of the cure which the Moor or
Arabian had undertaken, he sent, as we have already heard, a messenger
commanding the attendance of the Knight of the Leopard, determined to
soothe his impatience by obtaining from Sir Kenneth a more particular
account of the cause of his absence from the camp, and the circumstances
of his meeting with this celebrated physician.

The Scottish knight, thus summoned, entered the royal presence as one
who was no stranger to such scenes. He was scarcely known to the King
of England, even by sight, although, tenacious of his rank, as devout in
the adoration of the lady of his secret heart, he had never been absent
on those occasions when the munificence and hospitality of England
opened the Court of its monarch to all who held a certain rank in
chivalry. The King gazed fixedly on Sir Kenneth approaching his bedside,
while the knight bent his knee for a moment, then arose, and stood
before him in a posture of deference, but not of subservience or
humility, as became an officer in the presence of his sovereign.

"Thy name," said the King, "is Kenneth of the Leopard--from whom hadst
thou degree of knighthood?"

"I took it from the sword of William the Lion, King of Scotland,"
replied the Scot.

"A weapon," said the King, "well worthy to confer honour; nor has it
been laid on an undeserving shoulder. We have seen thee bear thyself
knightly and valiantly in press of battle, when most need there was; and
thou hadst not been yet to learn that thy deserts were known to us, but
that thy presumption in other points has been such that thy services can
challenge no better reward than that of pardon for thy transgression.
What sayest thou--ha?"

Kenneth attempted to speak, but was unable to express himself
distinctly; the consciousness of his too ambitious love, and the keen,
falcon glance with which Coeur de Lion seemed to penetrate his inmost
soul, combining to disconcert him.

"And yet," said the King, "although soldiers should obey command, and
vassals be respectful towards their superiors, we might forgive a brave
knight greater offence than the keeping a simple hound, though it were
contrary to our express public ordinance."

Richard kept his eye fixed on the Scot's face, beheld and beholding,
smiling inwardly at the relief produced by the turn he had given to his
general accusation.

"So please you, my lord," said the Scot, "your majesty must be good
to us poor gentlemen of Scotland in this matter. We are far from home,
scant of revenues, and cannot support ourselves as your wealthy nobles,
who have credit of the Lombards. The Saracens shall feel our blows the
harder that we eat a piece of dried venison from time to time with our
herbs and barley-cakes."

"It skills not asking my leave," said Richard, "since Thomas de Vaux,
who doth, like all around me, that which is fittest in his own eyes,
hath already given thee permission for hunting and hawking."

"For hunting only, and please you," said the Scot. "But if it please
your Majesty to indulge me with the privilege of hawking also, and you
list to trust me with a falcon on fist, I trust I could supply your
royal mess with some choice waterfowl."

"I dread me, if thou hadst but the falcon," said the King, "thou wouldst
scarce wait for the permission. I wot well it is said abroad that we of
the line of Anjou resent offence against our forest-laws as highly as we
would do treason against our crown. To brave and worthy men, however, we
could pardon either misdemeanour.--But enough of this. I desire to know
of you, Sir Knight, wherefore, and by whose authority, you took this
recent journey to the wilderness of the Dead Sea and Engaddi?"

"By order," replied the knight, "of the Council of Princes of the Holy
Crusade."

"And how dared any one to give such an order, when I--not the least,
surely, in the league--was unacquainted with it?"

"It was not my part, please your highness," said the Scot, "to inquire
into such particulars. I am a soldier of the Cross--serving, doubtless,
for the present, under your highness's banner, and proud of the
permission to do so, but still one who hath taken on him the holy symbol
for the rights of Christianity and the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre,
and bound, therefore, to obey without question the orders of the
princes and chiefs by whom the blessed enterprise is directed. That
indisposition should seclude, I trust for but a short time, your
highness from their councils, in which you hold so potential a voice, I
must lament with all Christendom; but, as a soldier, I must obey those
on whom the lawful right of command devolves, or set but an evil example
in the Christian camp."

"Thou sayest well," said King Richard; "and the blame rests not with
thee, but with those with whom, when it shall please Heaven to raise me
from this accursed bed of pain and inactivity, I hope to reckon roundly.
What was the purport of thy message?"

"Methinks, and please your highness," replied Sir Kenneth, "that were
best asked of those who sent me, and who can render the reasons of mine
errand; whereas I can only tell its outward form and purport."

"Palter not with me, Sir Scot--it were ill for thy safety," said the
irritable monarch.

"My safety, my lord," replied the knight firmly, "I cast behind me as a
regardless thing when I vowed myself to this enterprise, looking rather
to my immortal welfare than to that which concerns my earthly body."

"By the mass," said King Richard, "thou art a brave fellow! Hark thee,
Sir Knight, I love the Scottish people; they are hardy, though dogged
and stubborn, and, I think, true men in the main, though the necessity
of state has sometimes constrained them to be dissemblers. I deserve
some love at their hand, for I have voluntarily done what they could not
by arms have extorted from me any more than from my predecessors, I
have re-established the fortresses of Roxburgh and Berwick, which lay
in pledge to England; I have restored your ancient boundaries; and,
finally, I have renounced a claim to homage upon the crown of England,
which I thought unjustly forced on you. I have endeavoured to make
honourable and independent friends, where former kings of England
attempted only to compel unwilling and rebellious vassals."

"All this you have done, my Lord King," said Sir Kenneth, bowing--"all
this you have done, by your royal treaty with our sovereign at
Canterbury. Therefore have you me, and many better Scottish men, making
war against the infidels, under your banners, who would else have been
ravaging your frontiers in England. If their numbers are now few, it is
because their lives have been freely waged and wasted."

"I grant it true," said the King; "and for the good offices I have done
your land I require you to remember that, as a principal member of
the Christian league, I have a right to know the negotiations of my
confederates. Do me, therefore, the justice to tell me what I have a
title to be acquainted with, and which I am certain to know more truly
from you than from others."

"My lord," said the Scot, "thus conjured, I will speak the truth; for
I well believe that your purposes towards the principal object of our
expedition are single-hearted and honest, and it is more than I dare
warrant for others of the Holy League. Be pleased, therefore, to know
my charge was to propose, through the medium of the hermit of Engaddi--a
holy man, respected and protected by Saladin himself--"

"A continuation of the truce, I doubt not," said Richard, hastily
interrupting him.

"No, by Saint Andrew, my liege," said the Scottish knight; "but the
establishment of a lasting peace, and the withdrawing our armies from
Palestine."

"Saint George!" said Richard, in astonishment. "Ill as I have justly
thought of them, I could not have dreamed they would have humbled
themselves to such dishonour. Speak, Sir Kenneth, with what will did you
carry such a message?"

"With right good will, my lord," said Kenneth; "because, when we had
lost our noble leader, under whose guidance alone I hoped for victory,
I saw none who could succeed him likely to lead us to conquest, and I
accounted it well in such circumstances to avoid defeat."

"And on what conditions was this hopeful peace to be contracted?" said
King Richard, painfully suppressing the passion with which his heart was
almost bursting.

"These were not entrusted to me, my lord," answered the Knight of the
Couchant Leopard. "I delivered them sealed to the hermit."

"And for what hold you this reverend hermit--for fool, madman, traitor,
or saint?" said Richard.

"His folly, sire," replied the shrewd Scottish man, "I hold to be
assumed to win favour and reverence from the Paynimrie, who regard
madmen as the inspired of Heaven--at least it seemed to me as exhibited
only occasionally, and not as mixing, like natural folly, with the
general tenor of his mind."

"Shrewdly replied," said the monarch, throwing himself back on his
couch, from which he had half-raised himself. "Now of his penitence?"

"His penitence," continued Kenneth, "appears to me sincere, and the
fruits of remorse for some dreadful crime, for which he seems, in his
own opinion, condemned to reprobation."

"And for his policy?" said King Richard.

"Methinks, my lord," said the Scottish knight, "he despairs of the
security of Palestine, as of his own salvation, by any means short of
a miracle--at least, since the arm of Richard of England hath ceased to
strike for it."

"And, therefore, the coward policy of this hermit is like that of these
miserable princes, who, forgetful of their knighthood and their faith,
are only resolved and determined when the question is retreat, and
rather than go forward against an armed Saracen, would trample in their
flight over a dying ally!"

"Might I so far presume, my Lord King," said the Scottish knight, "this
discourse but heats your disease, the enemy from which Christendom
dreads more evil than from armed hosts of infidels."

The countenance of King Richard was, indeed, more flushed, and his
action became more feverishly vehement, as, with clenched hand, extended
arm, and flashing eyes, he seemed at once to suffer under bodily pain,
and at the same time under vexation of mind, while his high spirit led
him to speak on, as if in contempt of both.

"You can flatter, Sir Knight," he said, "but you escape me not. I must
know more from you than you have yet told me. Saw you my royal consort
when at Engaddi?"

"To my knowledge--no, my lord," replied Sir Kenneth, with considerable
perturbation, for he remembered the midnight procession in the chapel of
the rocks.

"I ask you," said the King, in a sterner voice, "whether you were not in
the chapel of the Carmelite nuns at Engaddi, and there saw Berengaria,
Queen of England, and the ladies of her Court, who went thither on
pilgrimage?"

"My lord," said Sir Kenneth, "I will speak the truth as in the
confessional. In a subterranean chapel, to which the anchorite conducted
me, I beheld a choir of ladies do homage to a relic of the highest
sanctity; but as I saw not their faces, nor heard their voices, unless
in the hymns which they chanted, I cannot tell whether the Queen of
England was of the bevy."

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

Sir Kenneth stood silent.

"I ask you," said Richard, raising himself on his elbow, "as a knight
and a gentleman--and I shall know by your answer how you value either
character--did you, or did you not, know any lady amongst that band of
worshippers?"

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

"And I also may guess," said the King, frowning sternly; "but it is
enough. Leopard as you are, Sir Knight, beware tempting the lion's paw.
Hark ye--to become enamoured of the moon would be but an act of folly;
but to leap from the battlements of a lofty tower, in the wild hope of
coming within her sphere, were self-destructive madness."

At this moment some bustling was heard in the outer apartment, and
the King, hastily changing to his more natural manner, said,
"Enough--begone--speed to De Vaux, and send him hither with the Arabian
physician. My life for the faith of the Soldan! Would he but abjure his
false law, I would aid him with my sword to drive this scum of French
and Austrians from his dominions, and think Palestine as well ruled by
him as when her kings were anointed by the decree of Heaven itself."

The Knight of the Leopard retired, and presently afterwards the
chamberlain announced a deputation from the Council, who had come to
wait on the Majesty of England.

"It is well they allow that I am living yet," was his reply. "Who are
the reverend ambassadors?"

"The Grand Master of the Templars and the Marquis of Montserrat."

"Our brother of France loves not sick-beds," said Richard; "yet, had
Philip been ill, I had stood by his couch long since.--Jocelyn, lay me
the couch more fairly--it is tumbled like a stormy sea. Reach me yonder
steel mirror--pass a comb through my hair and beard. They look, indeed,
liker a lion's mane than a Christian man's locks. Bring water."

"My lord," said the trembling chamberlain, "the leeches say that cold
water may be fatal."

"To the foul fiend with the leeches!" replied the monarch; "if they
cannot cure me, think you I will allow them to torment me?--There,
then," he said, after having made his ablutions, "admit the worshipful
envoys; they will now, I think, scarcely see that disease has made
Richard negligent of his person."

The celebrated Master of the Templars was a tall, thin, war-worn man,
with a slow yet penetrating eye, and a brow on which a thousand dark
intrigues had stamped a portion of their obscurity. At the head of
that singular body, to whom their order was everything, and their
individuality nothing--seeking the advancement of its power, even at
the hazard of that very religion which the fraternity were originally
associated to protect--accused of heresy and witchcraft, although by
their character Christian priests--suspected of secret league with the
Soldan, though by oath devoted to the protection of the Holy Temple, or
its recovery--the whole order, and the whole personal character of its
commander, or Grand Master, was a riddle, at the exposition of which
most men shuddered. The Grand Master was dressed in his white robes
of solemnity, and he bore the ABACUS, a mystic staff of office, the
peculiar form of which has given rise to such singular conjectures and
commentaries, leading to suspicions that this celebrated fraternity of