Chapter XXVI: "quantum Mutatus Ab Illo Hectore."

An hour had passed away since the conflict had ceased, and all was again peaceful and still. The Christian dead were buried; the Moslems yet dotted the plain with prostrate corpses, whose unclosed and glassy eyes met the gazer in every direction.

Of these the Crusaders reckoned little, nor did the ghastly spectacle at all disturb their rest. They sorrowed, indeed, for their own comrades; but when the parting prayers were breathed over their desert graves, they dismissed even them from their thoughts.

"They have given their lives in a noble cause, and the saints will take good care of them and make their beds in Paradise," was the general sentiment.

And now the fire was rekindled, the wine skins passed round, the venison steaks again placed on the glowing embers, and they refreshed the inner man, with appetites sharpened by their desperate exertions in the late struggle.

Close by the side of the young knight sat their deliverer, whose followers mingled with the Englishmen around at one or other of the fires they had kindled.

"A health," said the young knight--"a health to our deliverer. Had he not come so opportunely to our rescue, we were now supping in Paradise.

"What name shall I give to our honoured guest?"

"Men call me the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, but it is too proud a title to be borne by mortal man."

"Art thou he, then, whose fame has filled our ears, of whom minstrels sing, who with a band of stout followers defied the Moslem's rage in these forest fastnesses, before even Peter preached the word of God?"

"Thou hast exaggerated my merits, but be they many, or as I would say few, I am he of whom they speak."

"We are indeed honoured, thrice honoured, to be saved by thee; and these thy followers--of what nation are they?"

"Of all countries which rejoice in the light of the True Faith, but they were Varangians {xxvii}, of the household guard of the Emperor of the East, whose service I left, to avenge the injuries of the pilgrim, and to clear him a path through these robber-infested wastes."

"And may I ask the country which is honoured by thy birth, the nation which claims thee as her worthiest son?"

"I have no nation," said the knight; sadly; "for these thirty years I have been an exile from home."

The young knight asked no further questions, fearing to probe some secret wound. He gave the toast, and all drank it with cheers, which made the solitude ring.

An indefinable interest centred in this knight: rumour made him a noble of the later empire, the "Acolyth" or commander of that famous band of guards, whom the policy of the Caesar gathered around the tottering throne of Constantinople--exiles from all nations, but especially from England--driven by various fortunes from home. Hereward--and before him Norwegian Harold, who perished at Stamford Bridge--had served in their ranks.

This knight, whose real name none knew, had been the first to take up the sword in defence of the pilgrims, who sought the Holy Sepulchre, and who, on their passage southward, through these solitudes, were grievously maltreated by robbers, whom the Turkish Government--ever the same--protected, provided they paid the due tithe of their spoils to the Sultan.

In their mountain solitudes, fame reported the knight to have his secret retreat, whence no Turk nor Saracen could dislodge him, and whence he often issued, the protector of the Christian, the dread of his oppressor.

He had thrown aside his visor. Time, and perhaps grief, had marked many a wrinkle on his manly forehead; his hair and beard were grizzled with time and exposure; his age might have been variously estimated: he seemed to bear the weight of half a century at the least, but perhaps toil and trouble had dealt more severely with him than time.

"My son," he said, as he marked the intent gaze of the youth, who was excited by finding himself the companion of one so distinguished by feats of arms, "I have told thee my own vain designation; now, let me be anon the catechist. Of what country art thou?"

"Hast thou heard of a fair island across the sea men call England?"

"Have I not?"

"That is then my home."

"Thou art an Englishman? or do I not rather see one of the blood of the conquerors of that fair land."

And here he suppressed what might have been a sigh.

"I am indeed Norman by my father's side--a race none need blush to own, and received but recently knighthood from the hands of Robert of Normandy, after the battle of Dorylaeum; but by my mother's side I am of English blood."

"And thou blushest not to own it?"

"Why should I? Norman and English have long been peacefully united on my father's lands, and we know no distinction."

"Such, I have heard, is not yet everywhere the case in thine island; but thou hast not told me thy name."

"Edward of Aescendune, son of Etienne, lord of Aescendune in England, and Malville in Normandy."

The stranger started as if an arrow had suddenly pierced him. The young knight looked on him with amazement.

"A fit to which I am subject--it is nothing," said he, regaining his composure and drinking a goblet of wine. "May I ask thy mother's name? Thou saidst she was English."

"Edith, daughter of Edmund, the English lord of Aescendune, and Winifred his wife."

The knight was still evidently unwell--a deadly pallor sat on his face.

"I fear me thou art hurt."

"Nay, my son; one who like myself has lain for weeks in unwholesome caverns, with but scanty fare sometimes, contracts a tendency to this kind of seizure. It will pass away."

"Art thou interested in England? Perhaps thyself English by birth?"

"I have said I have no country," replied he, sadly.

The young lord of Aescendune remembered his designation of himself as an exile, and forbore to inquire, lest he should unawares renew some ancient wound.

The manner in which the knight addressed his young companion had something in it of tender interest; his voice sounded like that of one who spake with emotion forcibly suppressed.

"Thy mother is yet living?" said he, with forced calmness.

"She mourns our absence in the halls of Aescendune, yet she could not grudge us to the Cross, and methinks she finds consolation in many a holy deed of mercy and charity."

"Hast thou any brethren, or art thou her only child?"

"Nay, we are four in number--two boys and two girls. My brother Hugh is destined to be the future lord of Malville, and I, if I survive, shall inherit Aescendune."

"Thy mother, my boy, must miss thee sadly. How bore she the pain of separation?"

"Religion came to her aid, and does still. I can fancy her each morning as she kneels before the altar of St. Wilfred, and wearies heaven with prayer for her absent lord and her boy, and perhaps those prayers sent thee to my deliverance this night."

"Thrice blessed they who have so pious a mother. The Priory of St. Wilfred didst thou say? Methinks he was an English saint."

"It is the third building which has existed within the century on the spot. The first was burnt in the troubles which followed the Conquest; the second, dedicated to St. Denys, shared the same fate, and when the present priory was built, my father, who had brought his English wife from the convent of the Holy Trinity at Caen, where she received her education, restored the old dedication, as I imagine to give her pleasure."

"Thy father, thou sayest, is with thee in this land?"

"He has gone forward with the host to the siege of the Holy City. I was wounded on that glorious day when we scattered half a million followers of Mohammed, who had penned us within the walls of Antioch; and he left me with this faithful squire, Osmund--an old man who fought with my grandsire at Hastings--to tarry in the city till I should be fit to travel. Now we are journeying southward in haste, fearing we shall be too late for our share in the holy work. Dost thou not travel thitherward--thou of all men?"

"Even now I hasten, lest my unworthy eyes should fail to behold the deliverance of that Holy Sepulchre whence my designation is taken. We will travel together, so will thy journey be safer, for these Turks hang like carrion upon the skirts of the grand army."

"Blithely do I accept thine offer. I would not willingly perish in some obscure skirmish when the gates of Jerusalem are as the gates of heaven before me, and I shall present my preserver to my father. Are you ill again--I fear me--"

"It is nothing. Earthly feelings must not be permitted to mingle with our sacred call."

"But I may introduce you to him?"

"When our work is done--thou mayest. The hill of Calvary will be the fitting place, where--"

Here the knight paused, and was silent for awhile, then said--"It is night, and night is the time for rest; we must sleep, my young brother in arms, if we would be fit for travel tomorrow. See, we alone are watchers; our companions are all wrapped in slumber--save the sentinels, I will but assign the latter their posts and hours, and seek nature's greatest boon to man."

Edward of Aescendune would fain have joined in this duty, but the older soldier bade him rest, in a tone of gentle authority which he could not resist. And the stern warrior drew the embers of the fire, so as to warm the feet of the youth, while he cast a mantle over him to protect him from the heavy dew.

The Knight of the Holy Sepulchre departed upon his rounds, and assigned to the sentinels their posts, after which he returned and lay amidst the sleeping forms beneath the cedars, the branches of which were ever and anon fitfully illumined as some brand fell and caused a flame to arise. He gazed intently, nay, even fondly, upon the ingenuous face of the sleeping youth.

"How like his mother he is--what a load his simple tale has removed from my breast! God, I thank thee! the old house of my fathers yet lives in this boy--worthier far than I to represent it."