The Fair Maid of Perth 9781474433501

Table of contents :
FOREWORD
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
General Introduction
Volume I
Volume II
Essay on the Text
Emendation List
End-of-line Hyphens
Historical Note
Explanatory Notes
Glossary

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THE EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS      - -      Professor David Hewitt

 The Royal Society of Edinburgh : The University of Edinburgh    Bank of Scotland   Lord Sutherland of Houndwood, Chairman Sir Eric Anderson : Professor Andrew Hook Professor R. D. S. Jack : Professor Douglas Mack Professor Susan Manning : Allan Massie Professor Jane Millgate : Professor David Nordloh   Dr J. H. Alexander, University of Aberdeen Professor P. D. Garside, University of Edinburgh Professor Claire Lamont, University of Newcastle Dr Alison Lumsden, University of Aberdeen G. A. M. Wood, University of Stirling Typographical Adviser The late Ruari McLean

  [ ] THE TALISMAN

EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS

to be complete in thirty volumes Each novel is published separately but original conjoint publication of certain works is indicated in the     volume numbering [4a, b; 7a, b, etc.]. 1 2 3 4a 4b 5 6 7a 7b 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18a 18b 19 20 21 22 23a 23b 24 25a 25b

Waverley [1814] P. D. Garside Guy Mannering [1815] P. D. Garside The Antiquary [1816] David Hewitt The Black Dwarf [1816] P. D. Garside The Tale of Old Mortality [1816] Douglas Mack Rob Roy [1818] David Hewitt The Heart of Mid-Lothian [1818] David Hewitt & Alison Lumsden The Bride of Lammermoor [1819] J. H. Alexander A Legend of the Wars of Montrose [1819] J. H. Alexander Ivanhoe [1820] Graham Tulloch The Monastery [1820] Penny Fielding The Abbot [1820] Christopher Johnson Kenilworth [1821] J. H. Alexander The Pirate [1822] Mark Weinstein and Alison Lumsden The Fortunes of Nigel [1822] Frank Jordan Peveril of the Peak [1822] Alison Lumsden Quentin Durward [1823] J. H. Alexander and G. A. M. Wood Saint Ronan’s Well [1824] Mark Weinstein Redgauntlet [1824] G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt The Betrothed [1825] J. B. Ellis The Talisman [1825] J. B. Ellis Woodstock [1826] Tony Inglis with others Chronicles of the Canongate [1827] Claire Lamont The Fair Maid of Perth [1828] A. Hook and D. Mackenzie Anne of Geierstein [1829] J. H. Alexander Count Robert of Paris [1831] J. H. Alexander Castle Dangerous [1831] J. H. Alexander The Shorter Fiction Graham Tulloch and Judy King Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33 Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33

WALTER SCOTT

THE TALISMAN

Edited by J. B. Ellis with J. H. Alexander, P. D. Garside and David Hewitt

 University Press

© The University Court of the University of Edinburgh 2009 Edinburgh University Press 22 George Square, Edinburgh Typeset in Linotronic Ehrhardt by Speedspools, Edinburgh and printed and bound in Great Britain on acid-free paper at CPI Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wilts.  978 0 7486 0582 8 ePDF ISBN 978 1 4744 3350 1

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher.

FOREWORD

T  P           of Waverley in 1814 marked the emergence of the modern novel in the western world. It is difficult now to recapture the impact of this and the following novels of Scott on a readership accustomed to prose fiction either as picturesque romance, ‘Gothic’ quaintness, or presentation of contemporary manners. For Scott not only invented the historical novel, but gave it a dimension and a relevance that made it available for a great variety of new kinds of writing. Balzac in France, Manzoni in Italy, Gogol and Tolstoy in Russia, were among the many writers of fiction influenced by the man Stendhal called ‘notre père, Walter Scott’. What Scott did was to show history and society in motion: old ways of life being challenged by new; traditions being assailed by counter-statements; loyalties, habits, prejudices clashing with the needs of new social and economic developments. The attraction of tradition and its ability to arouse passionate defence, and simultaneously the challenge of progress and ‘improvement’, produce a pattern that Scott saw as the living fabric of history. And this history was rooted in place; events happened in localities still recognisable after the disappearance of the original actors and the establishment of new patterns of belief and behaviour. Scott explored and presented all this by means of stories, entertainments, which were read and enjoyed as such. At the same time his passionate interest in history led him increasingly to see these stories as illustrations of historical truths, so that when he produced his final Magnum Opus edition of the novels he surrounded them with historical notes and illustrations, and in this almost suffocating guise they have been reprinted in edition after edition ever since. The time has now come to restore these novels to the form in which they were presented to their first readers, so that today’s readers can once again capture their original power and freshness. At the same time, serious errors of transcription, omission, and interpretation, resulting from the haste of their transmission from manuscript to print can now be corrected. D D  University Press

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

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General Introduction

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THE TALISMAN Volume I

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Volume II

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Essay on the Text . . genesis

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composition

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the later editions . .

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the present text

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Emendation List

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End-of-line Hyphens .

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Historical Note

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Explanatory Notes Glossary

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Scott Advisory Board and the editors of the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels wish to express their gratitude to The University Court of the University of Edinburgh for its commitment in supporting the preparation of the first critical edition of Walter Scott’s fiction. Those Universities which employed the editors have also contributed greatly in paying salaries, and awarding research leave and grants for travel and materials. In addition to the universities, the project could not have prospered without the help of the sponsors cited below. Their generosity has met the direct costs of the initial research and of the preparation of the text of the novels appearing in this edition.    The collapse of the great Edinburgh publisher Archibald Constable in January 1826 entailed the ruin of Sir Walter Scott who found himself responsible for his own private debts, for the debts of the printing business of James Ballantyne and Co. in which he was co-partner, and for the bank advances to Archibald Constable which had been guaranteed by the printing business. Scott’s largest creditors were Sir William Forbes and Co., bankers, and the Bank of Scotland. On the advice of Sir William Forbes himself, the creditors did not sequester his property, but agreed to the creation of a trust to which he committed his future literary earnings, and which ultimately repaid the debts of over £120,000 for which he was legally liable. In the same year the Government proposed to curtail the rights of the Scottish banks to issue their own notes; Scott wrote the ‘Letters of Malachi Malagrowther’ in their defence, arguing that the measure was neither in the interests of the banks nor of Scotland. The ‘Letters’ were so successful that the Government was forced to withdraw its proposal and to this day the Scottish Banks issue their own notes. A portrait of Sir Walter appears on all current bank notes of the Bank of Scotland because Scott was a champion of Scottish banking, and because he was an illustrious and honourable customer not just of the Bank of Scotland itself, but also of three other banks now incorporated within it—the British Linen Bank, Sir William Forbes and Co., and Ramsays, Bonars and Company. Bank of Scotland’s support of the EEWN continues its long and fruitful involvement with the affairs of Walter Scott. viii

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          Between 1992 and 1998 the EEWN was greatly assisted by the British Academy through the award of a series of research grants which provided most of the support required for employing a research fellow, without whom steady progress could not have been maintained. In 2000 the AHRB awarded the EEWN a major grant which ensured the completion of the Edition. To both of these bodies, the British Academy and the Arts and Humanities Research Board, the Advisory Board and the editors express their thanks.   The Advisory Board and the editors also wish to acknowledge with gratitude the generous grants and gifts to the EEWN from the P. F. Charitable Trust, the main charitable trust of the Fleming family which founded the City firm Robert Fleming Holdings, now incorporated within J. P. Morgan; the Edinburgh University General Council Trust, now incorporated within the Edinburgh University Development Trust; Sir Gerald Elliot; the Modern Humanities Research Association; and the Robertson Trust. The Carnegie Trust for the Universities of Scotland made a generous award to the Editor which enabled him to travel to Yale to work on the proofs of the novel.     Without the generous assistance of the National Library of Scotland it would not have been possible to have undertaken the editing of Scott’s novels, and the Scott Advisory Board and the editors cannot overstate the extent to which they are indebted to the Trustees and the staff.   The manuscript of The Talisman is owned by the State Historical Museum in Moscow, which agreed to its deposit for a year in the National Library of Scotland, without which outstanding generosity this volume could not have been produced. The proofs of the novel are in the Beinecke Library at Yale University, which provided a hospitable and warm location for study in a particularly cold winter. A large proportion of the other manuscript material consulted and used in the preparation of this edition is in the National Library of Scotland. The editors are extremely grateful to all of these institutions for the access they have willingly given to these materials. To these should be added the Library of the University of Edinburgh, whose staff have been consistently helpful both in locating material. The Librarian of the Advocates’ Library responded willingly to requests for access to some volumes from the Abbotsford Library that related to this edition. The staff of all these institutions gave of their knowledge and skills unstintingly, and without this the production of this edition would have been impossible. Editing Scott demands scholarship beyond the command of any one

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individual. All along the way, John Ellis has received help and advice from a number of scholars and colleagues, which kept him on the right path. Alison Lumsden and David Hewitt shared a collation of the manuscript, and engaged in several productive sessions of discussion of difficult readings. Peter Garside expertly and good-humouredly guided the production of the Emendation List. Tom Craik provided scrupulous information on Shakespearean and other quotations; Roy Pinkerton likewise identified classical and Biblical references; and Carole Hillenbrand devoted much time to answering questions and solving problems on Islamic matters. To these must be added the late Sylvère Monod with whom there were stimulating and productive exchanges of information while he was preparing his translation of the novel into French. In the final stages of the creation of the volume, David Hewitt and J. H. Alexander found many of the more obscure sources (which had eluded the editor himself), thus enabling the volume to be more comprehensive and reliable than it would otherwise have been. Finally and most importantly, as in the companion novel, it has been the editor-in-chief whose constant vigilance and good humour have maintained the consistency and coherence of the finished volume. Our proof-readers, Ian Clark and Gillian Hughes, have been more than proof-readers: they are scholars whose comments correct and enrich the work of the editors. Our editorial assistants, Rachel McGregor and Ainsley McIntosh, have done much to ensure the consistency and reliability of the editorial matter. Finally, the EEWN compositor, Harry McIntosh, has been heroic in processing the complex material that constitutes the end-matter in record time. I thank them all.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

What has the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels achieved? The original version of this General Introduction said that many hundreds of readings were being recovered from the manuscripts, and commented that although the individual differences were often minor, they were ‘cumulatively telling’. Such an assessment now looks tentative and tepid, for the textual strategy pursued by the editors has been justified by spectacular results. In each novel up to 2000 readings never before printed are being recovered from the manuscripts. Some of these are major changes although they are not always verbally extensive. The restoration of the pen-portraits of the Edinburgh literati in Guy Mannering, the reconstruction of the way in which Amy Robsart was murdered in Kenilworth, the recovery of the description of Clara Mowbray’s previous relationship with Tyrrel in Saint Ronan’s Well—each of these fills out what was incomplete, or corrects what was obscure. A surprising amount of what was once thought loose or unidiomatic has turned out to be textual corruption. Many words which were changed as the holograph texts were converted into print have been recognised as dialectal, period or technical terms wholly appropriate to their literary context. The mistakes in foreign languages, in Latin, and in Gaelic found in the early printed texts are usually not in the manuscripts, and so clear is this manuscript evidence that one may safely conclude that Friar Tuck’s Latin in Ivanhoe is deliberately full of errors. The restoration of Scott’s own shaping and punctuating of speech has often enhanced the rhetorical effectiveness of dialogue. Furthermore, the detailed examination of the text and supporting documents such as notes and letters has revealed that however quickly his novels were penned they mostly evolved over long periods; that although he claimed not to plan his work yet the shape of his narratives seems to have been established before he committed his ideas to paper; and that each of the novels edited to date has a precise time-scheme which implies formidable control of his stories. The Historical and Explanatory Notes reveal an intellectual command of enormously diverse materials, and an equal imaginative capacity to synthesise them. Editing the texts has revolutionised the editors’ understanding and appreciation of Scott, and will ultimately generate a much wider recognition of his quite extraordinary achievement. The text of the novels in the Edinburgh Edition is normally based on the first editions, but incorporates all those manuscript readings which were lost through accident, error, or misunderstanding in the process of xi

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converting holograph manuscripts into printed books. The Edition is the first to investigate all Scott’s manuscripts and proofs, and all the printed editions to have appeared in his lifetime, and it has adopted the textual strategy which best makes sense of the textual problems. It is clear from the systematic investigation of all the different states of Scott’s texts that the author was fully engaged only in the early stages (manuscripts and proofs, culminating in the first edition), and when preparing the last edition to be published in his lifetime, familiarly known as the Magnum Opus (1829–33). There may be authorial readings in some of the many intermediate editions, and there certainly are in the third edition of Waverley, but not a single intermediate edition of any of the nineteen novels so far investigated shows evidence of sustained authorial involvement. There are thus only two stages in the textual development of the Waverley Novels which might provide a sound basis for a critical edition. Scott’s holograph manuscripts constitute the only purely authorial state of the texts of his novels, for they alone proceed wholly from the author. They are for the most part remarkably coherent, although a close examination shows countless minor revisions made in the process of writing, and usually at least one layer of later revising. But the heaviest revising was usually done by Scott when correcting his proofs, and thus the manuscripts could not constitute the textual basis of a new edition; despite their coherence they are drafts. Furthermore, the holograph does not constitute a public form of the text: Scott’s manuscript punctuation is light (in later novels there are only dashes, full-stops, and speech marks), and his spelling system though generally consistent is personal and idiosyncratic. Scott’s novels were, in theory, anonymous publications—no title page ever carried his name. To maintain the pretence of secrecy, the original manuscripts were copied so that his handwriting should not be seen in the printing house, a practice which prevailed until 1827, when Scott acknowledged his authorship. Until 1827 it was these copies, not Scott’s original manuscripts, which were used by the printers. Not a single leaf of these copies is known to survive but the copyists probably began the tidying and regularising. As with Dickens and Thackeray in a later era, copy was sent to the printers in batches, as Scott wrote and as it was transcribed; the batches were set in type, proof-read, and ultimately printed, while later parts of the novel were still being written. When typesetting, the compositors did not just follow what was before them, but supplied punctuation, normalised spelling, and corrected minor errors. Proofs were first read in-house against the transcripts, and, in addition to the normal checking for mistakes, these proofs were used to improve the punctuation and the spelling. When the initial corrections had been made, a new set of proofs went to James Ballantyne, Scott’s friend and partner in the printing firm

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which bore his name. He acted as editor, not just as proof-reader. He drew Scott’s attention to gaps in the text and pointed out inconsistencies in detail; he asked Scott to standardise names; he substituted nouns for pronouns when they occurred in the first sentence of a paragraph, and inserted the names of speakers in dialogue; he changed incorrect punctuation, and added punctuation he thought desirable; he corrected grammatical errors; he removed close verbal repetitions; and in a cryptic correspondence in the margins of the proofs he told Scott when he could not follow what was happening, or when he particularly enjoyed something. These annotated proofs were sent to the author. Scott usually accepted Ballantyne’s suggestions, but sometimes rejected them. He made many more changes; he cut out redundant words, and substituted the vivid for the pedestrian; he refined the punctuation; he sometimes reworked and revised passages extensively, and in so doing made the proofs a stage in the creative composition of the novels. When Ballantyne received Scott’s corrections and revisions, he transcribed all the changes on to a clean set of proofs so that the author’s hand would not be seen by the compositors. Further revises were prepared. Some of these were seen and read by Scott, but he usually seems to have trusted Ballantyne to make sure that the earlier corrections and revisions had been executed. When doing this Ballantyne did not just read for typesetting errors, but continued the process of punctuating and tidying the text. A final proof allowed the corrections to be inspected and the imposition of the type to be checked prior to printing. Scott expected his novels to be printed; he expected that the printers would correct minor errors, would remove words repeated in close proximity to each other, would normalise spelling, and would insert a printed-book style of punctuation, amplifying or replacing the marks he had provided in manuscript. There are no written instructions to the printers to this effect, but in the proofs he was sent he saw what Ballantyne and his staff had done and were doing, and by and large he accepted it. This assumption of authorial approval is better founded for Scott than for any other writer, for Scott was the dominant partner in the business which printed his work, and no doubt could have changed the practices of his printers had he so desired. It is this history of the initial creation of Scott’s novels that led the editors of the Edinburgh Edition to propose the first editions as base texts. That such a textual policy has been persuasively theorised by Jerome J. McGann in his A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (1983) is a bonus: he argues that an authoritative work is usually found not in the artist’s manuscript, but in the printed book, and that there is a collective responsibility in converting an author’s manuscript into print, exercised by author, printer and publisher, and governed by the nature of the understanding between the author and the other parties. In Scott’s case

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the exercise of such a collective responsibility produced the first editions of the Waverley Novels. On the whole Scott’s printers fulfilled his expectations. There are normally in excess of 50,000 variants in the first edition of a three-volume novel when compared with the manuscript, and the great majority are in accordance with Scott’s general wishes as described above. But the intermediaries, as the copyist, compositors, proof-readers, and James Ballantyne are collectively described, made mistakes; from time to time they misread the manuscripts, and they did not always understand what Scott had written. This would not have mattered had there not also been procedural failures: the transcripts were not thoroughly checked against the original manuscripts; Scott himself does not seem to have read the proofs against the manuscripts and thus did not notice transcription errors which made sense in their context; Ballantyne continued his editing in post-authorial proofs. Furthermore, it has become increasingly evident that, although in theory Scott as partner in the printing firm could get what he wanted, he also succumbed to the pressure of printer and publisher. He often had to accept mistakes both in names and the spelling of names because they were enshrined in print before he realised what had happened. He was obliged to accept the movement of chapters between volumes, or the deletion or addition of material, in the interests of equalising the size of volumes. His work was subject to bowdlerisation, and to a persistent attempt to have him show a ‘high example’ even in the words put in the mouths of his characters; he regularly objected, but conformed nonetheless. From time to time he inserted, under protest, explanations of what was happening in the narrative because the literal-minded Ballantyne required them. The editors of modern texts have a basic working assumption that what is written by the author is more valuable than what is generated by compositors and proof-readers. Even McGann accepts such a position, and argues that while the changes made in the course of translating the manuscript text into print are a feature of the acceptable ‘socialisation’ of the authorial text, they have authority only to the extent that they fulfil the author’s expectations about the public form of the text. The editors of the Edinburgh Edition normally choose the first edition of a novel as base-text, for the first edition usually represents the culmination of the initial creative process, and usually seems closest to the form of his work Scott wished his public to have. But they also recognise the failings of the first editions, and thus after the careful collation of all pre-publication materials, and in the light of their investigation into the factors governing the writing and printing of the Waverley Novels, they incorporate into the base-text those manuscript readings which were lost in the production process through accident, error, misunderstanding, or a misguided attempt to ‘improve’. In certain cases they also introduce into the base-texts revisions found in editions published almost immediately

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after the first, which they believe to be Scott’s, or which complete the intermediaries’ preparation of the text. In addition, the editors correct various kinds of error, such as typographical and copy-editing mistakes including the misnumbering of chapters, inconsistencies in the naming of characters, egregious errors of fact that are not part of the fiction, and failures of sense which a simple emendation can restore. In doing all this the editors follow the model for editing the Waverley Novels which was provided by Claire Lamont in her edition of Waverley (Oxford, 1981): her base-text is the first edition emended in the light of the manuscript. But they have also developed that model because working on the Waverley Novels as a whole has greatly increased knowledge of the practices and procedures followed by Scott, his printers and his publishers in translating holograph manuscripts into printed books. The result is an ‘ideal’ text, such as his first readers might have read had the production process been less pressurised and more considered. The Magnum Opus could have provided an alternative basis for a new edition. In the Advertisement to the Magnum Scott wrote that his insolvency in 1826 and the public admission of authorship in 1827 restored to him ‘a sort of parental control’, which enabled him to reissue his novels ‘in a corrected and . . . an improved form’. His assertion of authority in word and deed gives the Magnum a status which no editor can ignore. His introductions are fascinating autobiographical essays which write the life of the Author of Waverley. In addition, the Magnum has a considerable significance in the history of culture. This was the first time all Scott’s works of fiction had been gathered together, published in a single uniform edition, and given an official general title, in the process converting diverse narratives into a literary monument, the Waverley Novels. There were, however, two objections to the use of the Magnum as the base-text for the new edition. Firstly, this has been the form of Scott’s work which has been generally available for most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; a Magnum-based text is readily accessible to anyone who wishes to read it. Secondly, a proper recognition of the Magnum does not extend to approving its text. When Scott corrected his novels for the Magnum, he marked up printed books (specially prepared by the binder with interleaves, hence the title the ‘Interleaved Set’), but did not perceive the extent to which these had slipped from the text of the first editions. He had no means of recognising that, for example, over 2000 differences had accumulated between the first edition of Guy Mannering and the text which he corrected, in the 1822 octavo edition of the Novels and Tales of the Author of Waverley. The printed text of Redgauntlet which he corrected, in the octavo Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley (1827), has about 900 divergences from the first edition, none of which was authorially sanctioned. He himself made about 750 corrections to the text of Guy Mannering and

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200 to Redgauntlet in the Interleaved Set, but those who assisted in the production of the Magnum were probably responsible for a further 1600 changes to Guy Mannering, and 1200 to Redgauntlet. Scott marked up a corrupt text, and his assistants generated a systematically cleanedup version of the Waverley Novels. The Magnum constitutes the author’s final version of his novels and thus has its own value, and as the version read by the great Victorians has its own significance and influence. To produce a new edition based on the Magnum would be an entirely legitimate project, but for the reasons given above the Edinburgh editors have chosen the other valid option. What is certain, however, is that any compromise edition, that drew upon both the first and the last editions published in Scott’s lifetime, would be a mistake. In the past editors, following the example of W. W. Greg and Fredson Bowers, would have incorporated into the firstedition text the introductions, notes, revisions and corrections Scott wrote for the Magnum Opus. This would no longer be considered acceptable editorial practice, as it would confound versions of the text produced at different stages of the author’s career. To fuse the two would be to confuse them. Instead, Scott’s own material in the Interleaved Set is so interesting and important that it will be published separately, and in full, in the two parts of Volume 25 of the Edinburgh Edition. For the first time in print the new matter written by Scott for the Magnum Opus will be wholly visible. The Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels aims to provide the first reliable text of Scott’s fiction. It aims to recover the lost Scott, the Scott which was misunderstood as the printers struggled to set and print novels at high speed in often difficult circumstances. It aims in the Historical and Explanatory Notes and in the Glossaries to illuminate the extraordinary range of materials that Scott weaves together in creating his stories. All engaged in fulfilling these aims have found their enquiries fundamentally changing their appreciation of Scott. They hope that readers will continue to be equally excited and astonished, and to have their understanding of these remarkable novels transformed by reading them in their new guise.   January 1999

TALES OF THE CRUSADERS

tale ii THE TALISMAN

Chapter One ———The two retired To the wilderness, but ’twas with arms. Paradise Regained

T          sun of Syria had not yet obtained its highest point in the horizon, when a knight of the red cross, who had left his distant northern home, and joined the host of the crusaders in Palestine, was pacing slowly alongst the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity of the Dead Sea, or, as it is called, the Lake Asphaltites, where the waves of the Jordan pour themselves into an inland sea, from which there is no discharge of waters. The warlike pilgrim had toiled among cliffs and precipices during the earlier part of the morning; more lately, issuing from these rocky and dangerous defiles, he had entered upon that great plain, where the accursed cities provoked, in ancient days, the direct and dreadful vengeance of the Omnipotent. The toil, the thirst, the dangers of the way, were forgotten, as the traveller recalled the fearful catastrophe, which had converted into an arid and dismal wilderness the fair and fertile valley of Siddim, once well watered, even as the Garden of the Lord, now a parched and blighted waste, condemned to eternal sterility. Crossing himself, as he viewed the dark mass of rolling waters, in colour as in quality unlike those of every other lake, the traveller shuddered as he remembered, that beneath these sluggish waves lay the once proud cities of the plain, whose grave was dug by the thunder of the heavens, or the eruption of subterranean fire, and whose remains were hidden by that sea which holds no living fish in its bosom, bears no skiff on its surface, and, as if its own dreadful 3

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bed were the only fit receptacle for its sluggish waters, sends not, like other lakes, a tribute to the ocean. The whole land around, as in the days of Moses, was “brimstone and salt; it is not sown, nor beareth, nor any grass groweth thereon;” the land as well as the lake might be termed dead, as producing nothing having resemblance to vegetation, and even the very air was entirely devoid of its ordinary winged inhabitants, deterred probably by the odour of bitumen and sulphur which the burning sun exhaled from the waters of the lake, in steaming clouds, frequently assuming the appearance of waterspouts. Masses of the slimy and sulphureous substance called naphtha, which floated idly on the sluggish and sullen waves, supplied those rolling clouds with new vapours, and seemed to give awful testimony to the truth of the Mosaic history. Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with almost intolerable splendour, and all living nature appeared to have hidden itself from the rays, excepting the solitary figure which moved through the flitting sand at a foot’s pace, and appeared the sole breathing thing on the wide surface of the plain. The dress of the rider, and the accoutrements of his horse, seemed chosen on purpose, as most peculiarly unfit for the traveller in such a country. A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated gauntlets, and a steel breast-plate, had not been esteemed a sufficient weight of armour; there was also his triangular shield suspended round his neck, and his baret helmet of steel, over which flowed a hood and collar of mail, which was drawn around the warrior’s shoulders and throat, and filled up the vacancy betwixt the hauberk and the head-piece. His lower limbs were sheathed, like his body, in flexible mail, securing the legs and thighs, while the feet rested in plated shoes, which corresponded with the gauntlets. A long, broad, straight-shaped, double-edged falchion, with a handle formed like a cross, corresponded with a stout poniard on the other side. Secured to his saddle with one end resting on his stirrup, the knight had his proper weapon, the long steel-headed lance, which, as he rode, projected backwards, and displayed its little pennoncelle, to dally with the faint breeze, or drop in dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment must be added a surcoat, as it was called, of embroidered cloth, much frayed and worn, which was thus far useful, that it excluded the burning rays of the sun from the armour, which they would otherwise have rendered intolerable to the wearer. The surcoat bore, in several places, the arms of the owner, although much defaced. These seemed to be a couchant leopard, with the motto, “I sleep—wake me not.” An outline of the same device might have been traced on his shield, though many a blow had almost effaced the painting. The flat top of his cumbrous

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cylindrical helmet was unadorned with any crest. In retaining their own unwieldy defensive armour, the northern crusaders seemed to set at defiance the nature of the climate and country in which they were come to war. The accoutrements of the horse were scarcely less massive and unwieldy than those of the rider. The animal had a heavy saddle plated with steel, uniting in front with a species of breast-plate, and behind with defensive armour made to cover the loins. Then there was a steel axe, or hammer, called a mace-of-arms, and which hung to the saddle-bow; the reins were secured by chain-work, and the front-stall of the bridle was a steel plate, with apertures for the eyes and nostrils, having in the midst a short sharp pike, projecting from the forehead of the horse like the horn of the fabulous unicorn. But habit had made the endurance of this load of panoply a second nature, both to the knight and his gallant charger. Numbers, indeed, of the western warriors who hurried to Palestine, died ere they became inured to the burning climate. But there were others to whom that climate became innocent and even friendly, and amongst this fortunate number was the solitary horseman who now traversed the border of the Dead Sea. Nature, which cast his limbs in a mould of uncommon strength, fitted to wear his linked hauberk with as much ease as if the meshes had been formed of cobwebs, had endowed him with a constitution as strong as his limbs, and which bade defiance to almost all changes of climate, as well as to fatigue and privations of all kinds. His disposition seemed, in some degree, to partake of the qualities of his bodily frame; and as the one possessed great strength and endurance, united with the power of violent exertion, the other, under a calm and undisturbed semblance, had much of the fiery and enthusiastic love of glory which constituted the principal attribute of the renowned Norman line, and had rendered them sovereigns in every corner of Europe, where they had drawn their adventurous swords. It was not, however, to all the race that fortune proposed such tempting rewards; and those obtained by the solitary knight during two years’ campaign in Palestine, had been only temporal fame, and, as he was taught to believe, spiritual privileges. Meantime, his slender stock of money had melted away, the rather that he did not pursue any of the ordinary modes by which the followers of the crusade condescended to recruit their diminished resources, at the expense of the people of Palestine; he exacted no gifts from the wretched natives for sparing their possessions when engaged in warfare with the Saracens, and he had not enjoyed an opportunity of enriching himself by the ransom of any prisoners of consequence. The small

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train which had followed him from his native country, had been gradually diminished, as the means of maintaining them disappeared, and his only remaining squire was at present on a sick-bed, and unable to attend his master, who travelled, as we have seen, entirely unattended. This was of little consequence to the crusader, who was accustomed to consider his good sword as his safest escort, and devout thoughts as his best companion. Nature had, however, her demands for refreshment and repose, even on the iron frame and patient disposition of the Knight of the Sleeping Leopard; and at noon, when the Dead Sea lay at some distance on his right, he joyfully hailed the sight of two or three palm-trees, which arose beside the well which was assigned for his mid-day station. His good horse, too, which had plodded forward with the steady endurance of his master, now lifted his head, expanded his nostrils, and quickened his pace, as if he snuffed afar off the living waters, which were to be the place of repose and refreshment. But labour and danger were doomed to intervene ere the horse or horseman reached the desired spot. As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to fix his eyes attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm-trees, it seemed to him as if some object was moving amongst them and beside them. The distant form separated itself from the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced towards the knight with a speed which soon showed a mounted horseman, whose turban, long spear, and green caftan floating on the wind, in his nearer approach, showed to be a Saracen cavalier. “In the desert,” saith an Eastern proverb, “no man meets a friend.” The crusader was totally indifferent whether the infidel, who now approached on his gallant barb, as if borne on the wings of an eagle, came as friend or foe—perhaps, as a vowed champion of the Cross, he might rather have preferred the latter. He disengaged his lance from his saddle and, seizing it with the right hand, placed it in rest with its point half elevated, gathered up the reins in the left, waked his horse’s mettle with the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with the calm self-confidence, belonging to the victor in many contests. The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab horseman, managing his steed more by his limbs, and the inflection of his body, than by any use of the reins, which hung loose in his left hand; so that he was enabled to wield the light round buckler of the skin of the rhinoceros, ornamented with silver bosses, which he wore on his arm, swaying it as if he meant to oppose its slender circle to the formidable thrust of the western lance. His own long spear was not couched or levelled like that of his antagonist, but grasped by the

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middle with his right hand, and brandished at arm’s length above his head. As the cavalier approached his enemy at full career, he seemed to expect that the Knight of the Leopard should put his horse to the gallop to encounter him. But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the customs of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his good horse by any unnecessary exertion; and, on the contrary, made a dead-halt, confident that if his enemy advanced to the actual shock, his own weight, and that of his powerful charger, would give him sufficient advantage, without the additional momentum of rapid motion. Equally sensible and apprehensive of such a probable result, the Saracen cavalier, when he had approached towards the Christian within twice the length of his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with inimitable dexterity, and rode twice around his antagonist, who, turning without quitting his ground, and presenting his front constantly to his enemy, frustrated his attempts to attack him on an unguarded point; so that the Saracen, wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of an hundred yards. A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the Moor renewed the charge, and a second time was fain to retreat without coming to a close struggle. A third time he approached in the same manner, when the Christian knight, desirous to terminate this elusory warfare, in which he might have been at length worn out by the activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the mace which hung at his saddle-bow, and, with a strong hand and unerring aim, hurled it against the head of the Emir, for such and not less his enemy appeared. The Saracen was just aware of the formidable missile in time to interpose his light buckler betwixt the mace and his head; but the violence of the blow forced the buckler down on his turban, and though that defence also contributed to deaden its violence, the Saracen was beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian could avail himself of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprung from the ground, and, calling on his horse, which instantly returned to his side, he leaped into his seat without touching the stirrup, and regained all the advantage of which the Knight of the Leopard hoped to deprive him. But the latter had in the meanwhile recovered his mace, and the Eastern cavalier, who remembered the strength and dexterity with which he had aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of reach of that weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force; while he showed his purpose of waging a distant warfare with missile weapons of his own. Planting his long spear in the sand at a distance from the scene of combat, he strung with great address a short bow, which he carried at his back, and putting his horse to the gallop, once more described two or three circles of a wider extent than formerly, in the course of which he

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discharged six arrows at the Christian with such unerring skill, that the goodness of his harness alone saved him from being wounded in as many places. The seventh shaft apparently found a less perfect part of the armour, and the Christian dropped heavily from his horse. But what was the suprise of the Saracen, when, dismounting to examine the condition of his prostrate enemy, he found himself suddenly within the grasp of the European, who had had recourse to this artifice to bring his enemy within his reach. Even in this deadly grapple, the Saracen was saved by his agility and presence of mind. He unloosed the sword-belt, in which the Knight of the Leopard had fixed his grasp, and thus eluding him, mounted his horse, which seemed to watch his motions with the intelligence of a human being, and again rode off. But in the last encounter the Saracen had lost his sword and his quiver of arrows, both of which were attached to the girdle, which he was obliged to abandon. He had also lost his turban in the struggle. These disadvantages seemed to incline the Moslem to a truce: he approached the Christian with his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing attitude. “There is truce betwixt our nations,” he said, in the lingua franca commonly used for the purpose of communication with the crusaders; “wherefore should there be war betwixt thee and me?—Let there be peace betwixt us.” “I am well contented,” answered he of the Couchant Leopard; “but what security doest thou offer that thou wilt observe the truce?” “The word of a follower of the Prophet was never broken,” answered the Emir. “It is thou, brave Nazarene, from whom I should demand security, did I not know that treason seldom dwells with courage.” The crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem made him ashamed of his own doubts. “By the cross of my sword,” he said, laying his hand on the weapon as he spoke, “I will be true companion to thee, Saracen, while our fortune wills that we remain in company together.” “By Mahommed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the Prophet,” replied his late foeman, “there is not treachery in my heart towards thee. And now wend we to yonder fountain, for the hour of rest is at hand, and the stream had hardly touched my lip when I was called to battle by thy approach.” The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready and courteous assent; and the late foes, without an angry look or gesture of doubt, rode side by side to the little cluster of palm-trees.

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Chapter Two T  of danger have always, and in a peculiar degree, their seasons of good-will and of security; and this was particularly so in the ancient feudal ages, in which, as the manners of the period had assigned war to be the chief and most worthy occupation of mankind, the intervals of peace, or rather of truce, were highly relished by those warriors to whom they were seldom granted, and considered as secured by the very circumstances which rendered them transitory. It was not worth while preserving any personal enmity against a foe, whom a champion had fought with to-day, and might again stand in bloody opposition to upon the next morning. The time and situation afforded so much room for the ebullition of violent passions, that men, unless when peculiarly opposed to each other, or provoked by the recollection of private and individual wrongs, cheerfully enjoyed in each other’s society the brief intervals of pacific intercourse, which a warlike life admitted. The distinction of religions, nay, the fanatical zeal which animated the followers of the Cross and of the Crescent against each other, was much softened by a feeling so natural to generous combatants, and especially cherished by the spirit of chivalry. This last strong impulse had extended itself gradually from the Christians to their mortal enemies the Saracens, both of Spain and of Palestine. The latter were indeed no longer the fanatical savages, who had burst from the centre of Arabian deserts, with the sabre in the one hand, and the Koran in the other, to inflict death or the faith of Mahommed, or, at the best, slavery and tribute, upon all who dared to oppose the belief of the Prophet of Mecca. These alternatives indeed had been offered to the unwarlike Greeks and Syrians. But in contending with the western Christians, animated by a zeal as fiery as their own, and possessed of as unconquerable courage, address, and success in arms, the Saracens gradually caught a part of their manners, and especially of those chivalrous observances, which were so well calculated to charm the minds of a proud and conquering people. They had their tournaments and games of chivalry; they had even their knights, or some rank analogous; and above all, the Saracens observed their plighted faith with an accuracy which might sometimes put to shame those who owned a better religion. Their truces, whether national or betwixt individuals, were faithfully observed; and thus it was, that war, in itself perhaps the greatest of evils, yet gave occasion for display of good faith, generosity, clemency, and

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even kindly affections, which less frequently occur in more tranquil periods, where the passions of men, experiencing wrongs or entertaining quarrels which cannot be brought to instant decision, are apt to smoulder for a length of time in the bosoms of those who are so unhappy as to entertain them. It was under the influence of these milder feelings, which soften the horrors of warfare, that the Christian and Saracen, who had so lately done their best for each other’s mutual destruction, rode at a slow pace towards the fountain of palm-trees, to which the Knight of the Couchant Leopard had been tending, when interrupted in mid passage by his fleet and dangerous adversary. Each was wrapt for some time in his own reflections, and took breath after an encounter which had threatened to be fatal to one or both; and their good horses seemed no less to enjoy the interval of repose. That of the Saracen, however, though he had been forced into much the more violent and extended sphere of motion, appeared to have suffered less from fatigue than the charger of the European knight. The sweat hung still clammy on the limbs of the last, when those of the noble Arab were completely dried by the interval of tranquil exercise, all saving the foam-flakes which were still visible on his bridle and housings. The loose soil on which he trod so much augmented the distress of the Christian’s horse, heavily loaded by his own armour and the weight of his rider, that the latter jumped from his saddle, and led his charger along the deep dust of the loamy soil, which was burned by the sun into a substance more impalpable than the finest sand, and thus gave the faithful horse refreshment at the expense of his own additional toil; for, iron-sheathed as he was, he sunk over the mailed shoes at every step, which he placed on a surface so light and unresisting. “You are right,” said the Saracen; and it was the first word that either had spoken since their truce was concluded,—“your strong horse deserves your care—but what do you in the desert with an animal, which sinks over the fetlock at every step, as if he would plant each foot deep as the root of a date tree?” “Thou speakest rightly, Saracen,” said the Christian knight, not delighted in the tone with which the infidel criticized his favourite horse,—“rightly, according to thy knowledge and observation. But my good horse hath ere now borne me, in mine own land, over as wide a lake as thou seest yonder spread out behind us, yet not wet one hair above his hoof.” The Saracen looked at him with as much surprise as his manners permitted him to testify, which was only expressed by a slight approach to a disdainful smile, that hardly curled perceptibly the

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broad thick mustache which enveloped his upper lip. “It is justly spoken,” he said, instantly composing himself to his usual serene gravity,—“list to a Frank, and hear a fable.” “Thou art not courteous, misbeliever,” replied the crusader, “to doubt the word of a dubbed knight; and were it not that thou speakest in ignorance, and not in malice, our truce had its ending ere it is well begun. Thinkest thou I tell thee an untruth, when I say that I, one of five hundred horsemen, armed in complete mail, have ridden—ay, and ridden for miles, upon water as solid as the crystal, and ten times less brittle?” “What wouldst thou tell me?” answered the Moslem; “yonder inland sea thou doest point at is peculiar in this, that, by the especial curse of God, it suffereth nothing to sink in its waves, but wafts them away, and casts them on its margin; but neither the Dead Sea, nor any of the seven oceans which environ the earth, will endure in their surface the pressure of a horse’s foot, more than the Red Sea endured to sustain the advance of Pharaoh and his host.” “You speak truth after your knowledge, Saracen,” said the Christian knight; “and yet, trust me, I fable not according to mine. Heat converts this soil into something almost as unstable as water; and in my land cold often converts the water itself into a substance as hard as rock—Let us devise of this no longer; for the thoughts of the calm, clear, blue refulgence of a winter’s lake, glimmering to stars and moonbeam, aggravate the horrors of this fiery desert, where, methinks, the very air which we breathe is like the vapour of a fiery furnace seven times heated.” The Saracen looked on him with some attention, as if to discover in what sense he was to understand words, which, to him, must have appeared either to contain something of mystery, or of imposition. At length he seemed determined in what sense to understand the language of his new companion. “You are,” he said, “of a nation that loves to laugh, and you make sport with yourselves, and with others, by telling what is impossible, and reporting what never chanced. Thou art one of the knights of France, who hold it for glee and pastime to gab,* as they term it, of exploits that are beyond human power. I were wrong to challenge, for the time, the privilege of thy speech, since boasting is more natural to thee than truth.” “I am not of their land, neither of their fashion,” said the Knight, “which is, as thou well sayst, to gab of that which they dare not undertake, or undertaking cannot perfect. But in this I have imitated * Gaber. This French word signified a sort of sport much used among the French chivalry, which consisted in vying with each other in making the most romantic gasconades.

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their folly, brave Saracen, that in speaking to thee of what thou canst not comprehend, I have, even in speaking most simple truth, fully incurred the character of a braggart in thy eyes; so, I pray you, let my words pass.” They were now arrived at the knot of palm-trees, and the fountain which bubbled out under, and then, as if in gratitude, nourished them with its crystal waters. We have spoken of a moment of truce in the midst of war; and this, a spot of beauty in the midst of a sterile desert, was scarce less dear to the imagination. It was a scene which, perhaps, would elsewhere have deserved little notice; but as the single speck, in a boundless horizon, which promised the refreshment of shade and living water, these blessings, held cheap where they are common, rendered the fountain and its neighbourhood a little paradise. Some generous or charitable hand, ere yet the evil days of Palestine began, had walled in and arched over the fountain, to preserve it from being absorbed in the earth, or choked by the flitting clouds of dust with which the least breath of wind covered the desert. The arch was now broken, and partly ruinous; but it still so far projected over, and covered in the fountain, that it excluded the sun in a great measure from its waters, which, hardly touched by a straggling beam, while all around was blazing, lay in a steady repose, alike delightful to the eye and the imagination. Stealing from under the arch, they were first received in a marble basin, much defaced indeed, but still cheering the eye, by shewing that the place was anciently considered as a station, that the hand of man had been there, and that man’s accommodation had been in some measure cared for. The thirsty and weary traveller was reminded by these signs, that others had suffered similar difficulties, reposed in the same spot, and, doubtless, found their way in safety to a more fertile country. Again, the little scarce visible current which escaped from the basin, served to nourish the few trees which surrounded the fountain, and where it sunk into the ground and disappeared, its refreshing presence was acknowledged by a carpet of velvet verdure. In this delightful spot the two warriors halted, and each, after his own fashion, proceeded to relieve his horse from saddle, bit, and rein, and permitted the animals to drink at the basin, ere they refreshed themselves from the fountain head, which arose under the vault. They then suffered the steeds to go loose, confident that their instinct, as well as their domesticated habits, would prevent their straying from the pure water and fresh grass. Christian and Saracen next sat down together on the turf, and produced each the small allowance of stores which they carried for

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their own refreshment. Yet, ere they severally proceeded to their scanty meal, they eyed each other with that curiosity which the close and doubtful conflict in which they had been so lately engaged was calculated to inspire. Each was desirous to measure the strength, and form some estimate of the character, of an adversary so formidable; and each was compelled to acknowledge, that had he fallen in the conflict, it had been by a noble hand. The champions formed a striking contrast to each other in person and features, and might have formed no inaccurate representatives of their different nations. The Frank seemed a powerful man, built after the ancient Gothic cast of form, with brown hair, which, on the removal of his helmet, was seen to curl thick and profusely over his head. His features had acquired, from the hot climate, a hue much darker than those parts of his neck which were less frequently exposed to view, or than was warranted by his full and well opened blue eye, the colour of his hair, and of the mustaches which thickly shaded his upper lip, while his chin was carefully divested of beard, after the Norman fashion. His nose was Grecian and well formed; his mouth a little large in proportion, but filled with well-set, strong, and beautiful teeth; his head small, and set upon the neck with much grace. His age could not exceed thirty, but if the effects of toil and climate were allowed for, might be three or four years under that period. His form was tall, powerful, and athletic, like that of a man whose strength might, in latter life, become unwieldy, but which was hitherto united with lightness and activity. His hands, when he withdrew the mailed gloves, were long, fair, and wellproportioned, the wrist-bones peculiarly large and strong, and the arms themselves remarkably well-shaped and brawny. A military hardihood, and careless frankness of expression, characterized his language and his motions; and his voice had the tone of one more accustomed to command than to obey, and who was in the habit of expressing his sentiments aloud and boldly, wherever he was called upon to announce them. The Saracen Emir formed a marked and striking contrast with the northern crusader. His stature was indeed above the middle size, but he was at least three inches shorter than the European, whose size approached the gigantic. His slender limbs, and long spare hands and arms, though well proportioned to his person, and suited to the style of his countenance, did not at first aspect promise the display of vigour and elasticity which the Emir had lately exhibited. But on looking more closely, his limbs, where exposed to view, seemed divested of all that was fleshy or cumbersome; so that nothing being left but bone, brawn, and sinew, it was a frame fitted

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for exertion and fatigue, far beyond that of a bulky champion, whose strength and size are counterbalanced by weight, and who is exhausted by his own exertions. The countenance of the Saracen naturally bore a general national resemblance to the eastern tribe from whom he descended, and was as unlike as possible to the exaggerated terms in which the minstrels of the day were wont to represent the infidel champions, and the fabulous description which a sister art still presents upon old-fashioned sign-posts. His features were small, well formed, and delicate, though deeply embrowned by the eastern sun, and terminated by a flowing and curled black beard, which seemed trimmed with peculiar care. The nose was straight and regular, the eyes keen, deep-set, black, and glowing, and his teeth equalled in beauty the ivory of his deserts. The person and proportion of the Saracen, in short, stretched on the turf near to his powerful antagonist, might have been compared to his sheeny and crescent-formed sabre, with its narrow and light, but bright and keen Damascus blade, contrasted with the long and ponderous Gothic war-sword which was flung unbuckled on the same sod. The Emir was in the very flower of his age, and might perhaps have been termed eminently beautiful, but for the narrowness of his forehead, and something of too much thinness and sharpness of feature, or at least what seemed such in an European estimate of beauty. The manners of the Eastern warrior were grave, graceful, and decorous; indicating, however, in some particulars, the habitual restraint which men of warm and choleric tempers often set as a guard upon their native impetuosity of disposition, and at the same time a sense of his own dignity, which seemed to impose a certain formality of behaviour on him who entertained it. This haughty feeling of superiority was perhaps equally entertained by his new European acquaintance, but the effect was different; and the same feeling, which dictated to the Christian knight a bold, blunt, and somewhat careless bearing, as one too conscious of his own importance to be anxious about the opinions of others, appeared to prescribe to the Saracen a style of courtesy more studiously and formally observant of ceremony. Both were courteous; but the courtesy of the Christian seemed to flow rather from a goodhumoured sense of what was due to others; that of the Moslem, from a high feeling of what was to be expected from himself. The provision which each had made for his refreshment was simple, but the meal of the Saracen was abstemious. A handful of dates, and a morsel of coarse barley-bread, sufficed to relieve the hunger of the latter, whose education had habituated him to the fare

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of the desert, although, since their Syrian conquests, the Arabian simplicity of life frequently gave place to the most unbounded profusion of luxury. A moderate draught from the lively fountain by which they reposed completed his meal. That of the Christian, though coarse, was more genial. Dried hog’s-flesh, the abomination of the Moslemah, was the chief part of his repast; and his drink, derived from a leathern bottle, contained something better than pure element. He fed with more display of appetite, and drank with more appearance of satisfaction, than the Saracen judged it becoming to shew in the performance of a mere bodily function; and, doubtless, the secret contempt which each entertained for the other, as the follower of a false religion, was considerably increased by the marked difference of their diet and manners. But each had found the weight of his opponent’s arm, and the mutual respect which the bold struggle had created, was sufficient to subdue other and inferior considerations. Yet the Saracen could not help remarking the circumstances which displeased him in the Christian’s conduct and manners. After he had witnessed for some time in silence the keen appetite which protracted the knight’s banquet long after his own was concluded, he thus addressed him:— “Valiant Nazarene, is it fitting that one who can fight like a man should feed like a dog or a wolf—Even a misbelieving Jew would shudder at the food which you eat, as if it were fruit from the trees of Paradise.” “Valiant Saracen,” answered the Christian, looking up with some surprise at the accusation thus unexpectedly brought, “know then that I exercise my Christian freedom, in using that which is forbidden to the Jews, being, as they esteem themselves, under the bondage of the old law of Moses. We, Saracen, be it known to thee, have a better warrant for what we do—Ave Maria!—be we thankful.” And, as if in defiance of his companion’s scruples, he concluded a short Latin grace with a long draught from the leathern bottle. “That, too, you call a part of your liberty,” said the Saracen; “and as you feed like the brutes, so you degrade yourself to the bestial condition, by drinking what even they refuse.” “Know, foolish Saracen,” replied the Christian, without hesitation, “that thou blasphemest the gifts of God, even with the blasphemy of thy father Ishmael. The juice of the grape is given to him that will use it wisely, as that which cheers the heart of man after toil, refreshes him in sickness, and comforts him in sorrow—he who so enjoyeth it may thank God for his wine-cup as for his daily bread; and he who abuseth the gift of Heaven, is not a greater fool in his intoxication than thou in thine abstinence.”

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The keen eyes of the Saracen kindled at this sarcasm, and his hand sought the hilt of his poniard. It was but a momentary thought, however, and died away in the recollection of the powerful champion with whom he had to deal, and the desperate grapple, the impression of which still throbbed in his limbs and veins; and he contented himself with pursuing the contest in words, as more convenient for the time. “Thy words,” he said, “Nazarene, might create anger, did not thy ignorance raise compassion—Seest thou not, O thou more blind than any who asks alms at the door of the mosque, that the liberty thou doest boast of is restrained even in that which is dearest to man’s happiness, and to his household; and that thy law, if thou doest practise it, binds thee in marriage to one single mate, be she sick or healthy, be she fruitful or barren, bring she comfort and joy, or clamour and strife, to thy table and to thy bed? This, Nazarene, I do indeed call slavery. Whereas to the faithful hath the Prophet assigned upon earth the patriarchal privileges of Abraham our father, and of Solomon, the wisest of mankind, having given us here a succession of beauty at our pleasure, and beyond the grave the black-eyed houris of Paradise.” “Now, by His name that I most reverence in Heaven,” said the Christian, “and by hers whom I most worship on earth, thou art but a blinded and a bewildered infidel!—That diamond signet, which thou wearest on thy finger, thou holdest it, doubtless, as of inestimable value?” “Balsora and Bagdad cannot shew the like,” replied the Saracen; “but what avails it to our purpose?” “Much,” replied the Frank, “as thou shalt thyself confess. Take my war-axe, and dash the stone into twenty shivers;—would each fragment be as valuable as the original gem, or would they, all collected, bear the tenth part of its estimation?” “That is a child’s question,” answered the Saracen; “the fragments of such a stone would not equal the entire jewel in the degree of hundreds to one.” “Saracen,” replied the Christian warrior, “the love which a true knight binds on one only, fair and faithful, is the gem entire—the affection thou flingest among thy enslaved wives, and half-wedded slaves, is worthless, comparatively, as the sparkling shivers.” “Now, by the Holy Caaba,” said the Emir, “thou art a madman, who hugs his chain of iron as if it were of gold. Look more closely! This ring of mine would lose half its beauty were not the signet encircled and enchased with these lesser brilliants, which grace it and set it off. The central diamond is man, firm and entire, his value

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depending on himself alone; and this circle of lesser jewels are women, borrowing and returning his lustre, which he deals out to them as best suits his pleasure or his convenience. Take the central stone from the circlet, and the diamond itself remains as valuable as ever, while the lesser gems are comparatively of little value. And this is the true reading of thy parable—for, what sayeth the poet Mansour: ‘It is the favour of man which giveth beauty and comeliness to woman, as the stream glitters no longer when the sun ceaseth to shine.’” “Saracen,” replied the Crusader, “thou speakest like one who never saw a woman worthy the affections of a soldier. Believe me, couldst thou look upon those of Europe, to whom, after Heaven, we of the order of knighthood vow fealty and devotion, thou wouldst loathe for ever the poor sensual slaves who form thy haram. Their beauty gives point to our spears, and edge to our swords; their words are our law; and as soon will a lamp shed lustre when unkindled, as a knight distinguish himself by feats of arms, having no mistress of his affection.” “I have heard of this frenzy among the warriors of the west,” said the Emir, “and have ever accounted it one of the accompanying symptoms of that insanity, which brings you hither to obtain possession of an empty sepulchre—Yet, methinks, so highly have the Franks whom I have met with extolled the beauty of their women, I could be well contented to behold with my own eyes those charms, which can transform such brave warriors into the tools of their pleasure.” “Brave Saracen,” said the Knight, “if I were not on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, it should be my pride to conduct you, on assurance of safety, to the camp of Richard of England, than whom none knows better how to do honour to a noble foe; and though I be poor and unattended, yet have I interest to secure for thee, or any such as thou seemst, not safety only, but respect and esteem— There shouldst thou see several the fairest beauties of France and Britain form a small circle, the brilliancy of which exceeds tenthousand-fold whatever thou canst conceive of mines of diamonds such as thine.” “Now, by the corner-stone of the Caaba!” said the Saracen, “I will accept thy invitation as freely as it is given, if thou wilt postpone thy present intent; and, credit me, brave Nazarene, it were better for thyself to turn back thy horse’s head towards the camp of thy people, for, to travel towards Jerusalem without a passport, is but a wilful casting away of thy life.” “I have a pass,” answered the Knight, producing a parchment,

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“under Saladin’s hand and signet.” The Saracen bent his head to the dust as he recognized the seal and hand-writing of the renowned Soldan of Egypt and Syria; and having kissed the paper with profound respect, he pressed it to his forehead, then returned it to the Christian, saying, “Rash Frank, thou hast sinned against thine own blood and mine, for not shewing this to me when we met.” “You came with levelled spear,” said the Knight; “had a troop of Saracens so assailed me, it might have stood with my honour to have shewn the Soldan’s pass, but never to one man.” “And yet one man,” said the Saracen, haughtily, “was enough to interrupt your journey.” “True, brave Moslem,” replied the Christian; “but there are few such as thou art. Such falcons fly not in flocks, or, if they do, they pounce not in numbers upon one.” “Thou doest us but justice,” said the Saracen, evidently gratified by the compliment, as he had been touched by the implied scorn of the European’s previous boast; “from us thou shouldst have had no wrong; but well was it for me that I failed to slay thee, with the safeguard of the king of kings upon thy person. Certain it were, that the cord or the sabre had justly avenged such guilt.” “I am glad to hear that its influence shall be availing to me,” said the Knight; “for I have heard that the road is infested with robbertribes, who regard nothing in comparison of an opportunity of plunder.” “Truth has been told to thee, brave Christian,” said the Saracen; “but I swear to thee, by the turban of the Prophet, that shouldst thou miscarry in any haunt of such villains, I will myself undertake thy revenge with five thousand horse: I will slay every male of them, and send their women into such distant captivity, that the name of their tribe shall never again be heard within five hundred leagues of Damascus. I will sow with salt the foundations of their village, and there shall never live thing dwell there, even from that time forward.” “I had rather the trouble which you design for yourself were in revenge of some other person than of me, noble Emir,” replied the Knight; “but my vow is recorded in Heaven, for good or evil, and I must be indebted to you for pointing me out the way to my restingplace for this evening.” “That,” said the Saracen, “must be under the black covering of my fathers’ tent.” “This night,” answered the Christian, “I must pass in prayer and penitence with a holy man, Theodorick of Engaddi, who dwells amongst these wilds, and spends his life in the service of God.”

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“I will at least see you safe thither,” said the Saracen. “That would be pleasant convoy for me,” said the Christian, “yet might endanger the future security of the good father; for the cruel hand of your people has been red with the blood of the servants of the Lord, and therefore do we come hither in plate and mail, with sword and lance, to open the road to the Holy Sepulchre, and protect the chosen saints and anchorets who yet dwell in this land of promise and of miracle.” “Nazarene,” said the Moslem, “in this the Greeks and Syrians have much belied us, seeing we do but after the word of Abubeker Alwakel, the successor of the Prophet, and, after him, the first commander of true believers. ‘Go forth,’ he said to Yezed Ben Sophian, when he sent that renowned general to take Syria from the infidels, ‘quit yourselves like men in battle, but slay neither the aged, the infirm, the women, nor the children. Waste not the land, neither destroy corn and fruit trees, they are the gifts of Allah. Keep faith when you have made any covenant, even if it be to your own harm. If ye find holy men labouring with their hands, and serving God in the desert, hurt them not, neither destroy their dwellings— But when you find those with shaven crowns, they are of the synagogue of Satan! smite with the sabre, slay, cease not till they become believers or tributaries.’ As the Caliph, companion of the Prophet, hath told us, so have we done, and those whom our justice has smitten are but the priests of Satan. But unto the good men who, without stirring up nation against nation, worship sincerely in the faith of Issa Ben Mariam, we are a shadow and a shield; and such being he whom you seek, even though the light of the Prophet hath not reached him, from me he will only have love, favour, and regard.” “The anchoret whom I would now visit,” said the warlike pilgrim, “is, I have heard, no priest; but were he of that anointed and sacred order, I would prove with my good lance, against paynim and infidel”—— “Let us not defy each other, brother,” interrupted the Saracen; “we will find, either of us, enough of Franks or of Moslemah on whom to exercise both sword and lance. This Theodorick is protected both by Turk and Arab; and, though one of strange conditions at intervals, yet, on the whole, he so well bears himself as the follower of his own prophet, that he merits the protection of him who was sent——” “Now, by Our Lady, Saracen, if thou darest name in the same breath the camel-driver of Mecca with”—— An electrical shock of passion thrilled through the frame of the

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Emir; but it was only momentary, and the calmness of his reply had both dignity and reason in it, when he said, “Slander not him whom thou knowst not; the rather that we venerate the founder of thy religion, while we condemn the doctrine which your priests have spun from it. I will myself guide thee to the cavern of thy hermit, which, methinks, without my help, thou wouldst find it a hard matter to reach. And, by the way, let us leave to mollahs and to monks, to dispute about the divinity of our faith, and speak on themes which belong to youthful warriors! upon bold battles, upon beautiful women, upon sharp swords, and upon bright armour.”

Chapter Three T       arose from their place of brief rest and simple refreshment, and courteously aided each other while they carefully replaced and adjusted the harness, from which they had relieved for the time their trusty steeds. Each seemed familiar with an employment, which at that time was a part of necessary, and, indeed, indispensable duty. Each also seemed to possess, as far as the difference betwixt the animal and rational species admitted, the confidence and affection of the horse, which was the constant companion of his travels and his warfare. With the Saracen, this familiar intimacy was a part of his early habits; for, in the tents of the Eastern military tribes, the horse of the soldier ranks next to, and almost equal in importance with, his wife and his family; and, with the European warrior, circumstances, and indeed necessity, rendered his warhorse scarcely less than his brother-in-arms. The steeds, therefore, suffered themselves quietly to be taken from their food and liberty, and neighed and snuffled fondly around their masters, while they were adjusting their accoutrements for further travel and additional toil. And each warrior, as he prosecuted his own task, or assisted with courtesy his companion, looked with observant curiosity at the equipments of his fellow-traveller, and noted particularly what struck him as peculiar in the fashion with which his companion arranged his riding accoutrements. Ere they mounted to resume their journey, the Christian knight again moistened his lips, and dipped his hands in the living fountain, and said to his pagan associate of the journey—“I would I knew the name of this delicious fountain, that I might hold it in my grateful remembrance, for never did water slake more deliciously a more oppressive thirst than I have this day experienced.” “It is called in the Arabic language,” answered the Saracen, “by a

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name which signifies the Diamond of the Desert.” “And well is it named,” replied the Christian. “My native valley hath a thousand springs, but not to one of them shall I attach such precious recollection as to this solitary fount, which bestows its liquid treasures where they are not only delightful, but nearly indispensable.” “You say truth,” said the Saracen; “for the curse is still on yonder sea of death, and neither man nor beast drink of its waves, nor of the river which feeds without filling it, until this inhospitable desert be passed.” They mounted, and pursued their journey across the sandy waste. The ardour of noon was now passed, and a light breeze somewhat alleviated the terrors of the desert, though not without bearing on its wings an impalpable dust, which the Saracen little heeded, though his heavily armed companion felt it as such an annoyance, that he hung his iron casque at his saddle-bow, and substituted the light riding cap, termed in the language of the times a mortier, from its resemblance in shape to an ordinary mortar. They rode together for some time in silence, the Saracen performing the part of director and guide of the journey, which he did by observing minute marks and bearings of the distant rocks, the ridge of which they were gradually approaching. For a little time he seemed absorbed in the task, as a pilot when navigating a vessel through a difficult channel; but they had not proceeded half a league when he seemed secure of his route, and disposed, with more frankness than was proper to his nation, to enter into conversation. “You have asked the name,” he said, “of a mute fountain, which hath the semblance, but not the reality, of a living thing—Let me be pardoned to ask the name of the companion with whom I have this day encountered, both in danger and in repose, and which I cannot fancy unknown, even here among the deserts of Palestine?” “It is not yet worth publishing,” said the Christian. “Know, however, that among the soldiers of the Cross I am called Kenneth— Kenneth of the Couching Leopard—at home I have other titles, but they would sound harsh in an Eastern ear—Brave Saracen, let me ask which of the tribes of Arabia claims your descent, and by what name you are known?” “Sir Kenneth,” said the Moslem, “I joy that your name is such as my lips can easily utter. For me, I am no Arab—yet derive my descent from a line neither less wild nor less warlike. Know, Sir Knight of the Leopard, that I am Sheerkohf, the Lion of the Mountain, and that Kurdistan, from which I derive my descent, holds no family more noble than that of Seljook.”

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“I have heard,” answered the Christian, “that your great Soldan derives his blood from the same source?” “Thanks to the Prophet, that hath so far honoured our mountains, as to send from their bosom Him whose word is victory,” answered the Paynim. “I am but as a worm before the King of Egypt and Syria, and yet in my own land something my name may avail.— Stranger, with how many men didst thou come on this warfare?” “By my faith,” said Sir Kenneth, “with aid of friends and kinsmen, I was hardly pinched to furnish forth ten well-appointed lances, with maybe some fifty men, archers and varlets included. Some have deserted my unlucky pennon—some have fallen in battle— several have died of disease—and one trusty armour-bearer, for whose life I am now doing my pilgrimage, lies on the bed of sickness.” “Christian,” said Sheerkohf, “here I have five arrows in my quiver, each feathered from the wing of the eagle—when I send one of these to my tents, a thousand warriors mount on horseback—when I send another, an equal force will arise—for the five, I can command five thousand men; and if I send my bow, ten thousand mounted riders will shake the desert. And with thy fifty followers thou hast come to invade a land, in which I am one of the meanest!” “Now, by the rood, Saracen,” retorted the northern warrior, “thou shouldst know, ere thou vauntest thyself, that one steel glove can crush a whole handful of hornets.” “Ay, but it must first inclose them within its grasp,” said the Saracen, with a smile which might have endangered their new alliance, had he not changed the subject by adding, “And is bravery so much esteemed amongst the Christian princes, that thou, thus void of means, and of men, canst offer, as thou didst of late, to be my protector and security in the camp of thy brethren?” “Know, Sheerkohf,” said the Christian, “since such is thy title, that the name of a knight, and the blood of a gentleman, entitle him to place himself on the same rank with sovereigns, even of the first degree, in so far as regards all but regal authority and dominion. Were Richard of England himself to wound the honour of a knight as poor as I am, he could not, by the law of chivalry, deny him the combat.” “Methinks I should like to look upon so strange a scene,” said Sheerkohf, “in which a leathern belt and a pair of spurs put the poorest on a level with the most powerful.” “You must add free blood and a fearless heart,” said the Christian; “then, perhaps, you will not have spoken untruly.” “And mix you as boldly amongst the females of your chiefs and leaders?” asked the Saracen.

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“God forbid,” said the Knight of the Leopard, “that the poorest knight of Christendom should not be free, in all honourable service, to devote his heart and sword, the fame of his actions, and the fixed devotion of his heart, to the fairest princess who ever wore coronet on her brow.” “But a little while since,” said the Saracen, “and you described love as the highest treasure of the heart—Thine hath undoubtedly been high and nobly bestowed.” “Stranger,” answered the Christian, blushing deeply as he spoke, “we tell not rashly where it is that we have bestowed our choicest treasures—it is enough for thee to know, that, as thou sayst, my love is highly and nobly bestowed—most highly—most nobly—But if thou wouldst hear of love and broken lances, venture thyself, as thou sayst, to the camp of the crusaders, and thou wilt find exercise for thine ears, and, if thou wilt, for thy hands too.” The Eastern warrior, raising himself in his stirrups, and shaking aloft his lance, replied, “Hardly, I fear, will I find one with a crossed shoulder, who will exchange with me the cast of the jerrid.” “I will not promise for that,” replied the northerner, “though there be in the camp certain Spaniards, who have right good skill in your eastern game of hurling the javelin.” “Dogs, and sons of dogs!” answered the Saracen; “what have these Spaniards to do to come hither to combat the true believers, who, in their own land, are their lords and taskmasters—With them I would mix in no warlike pastime.” “Let not the knights of Leon or Asturias hear you speak thus of them,” said the Knight of the Leopard; “but,” added he, smiling, at the recollection of the morning’s combat, “if, instead of a reed, you were inclined to stand the cast of a battle-axe, there are enough of western warriors who would gratify your longing.” “By the beard of my father, no!” said the Saracen, with an approach to laughter, “the game is all too rough for mere sport— I will never shun them in battle, but my head” (pressing his hand to his brow) “will not, for a while, permit me to seek them in game.” “I would you saw the axe of King Richard,” answered the northern warrior, “to which that which hangs at my saddle-bow weighs but as a feather.” “We hear much of that island sovereign,” said the Saracen, “art thou one of his subjects?” “One of his followers I am, for this expedition,” answered the Knight, “and honoured in the service; but not born his subject, although a native of the island in which he reigns.”

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“How mean you?” said the eastern soldier; “have you then two kings for one poor island?” “As thou sayst,” said the Scot, for such was Sir Kenneth by birth, —“It is even so—and yet, although the inhabitants of the two extremities of that island are engaged in frequent war, the country can, as thou seest, furnish forth such a body of men-at-arms, as may go far to shake the unholy hold which your master hath laid on the cities of Zion.” “By the hand of Saladin, Nazarene, but that it is a thoughtless and boyish folly, I could laugh at the simplicity of your great Sultan, who comes hither to make conquests of deserts and rocks, and dispute the possession of them with those who have tenfold numbers at command, while he leaves a part of the narrow islet, in which he was born a sovereign, to the dominion of another sceptre than his. Surely, Sir Kenneth, you and the other good men of your country should have submitted yourself to the dominion of this King Richard, ere you left your native land, divided against itself, to set forth on this expedition?” Hasty and fierce was Kenneth’s answer. “No, by the bright light of Heaven! If the King of England had not set forth to the crusade till he was sovereign of Scotland, the crescent might, for me, and all true-hearted Scots, glitter for ever on the walls of Zion.” Thus far he had proceeded, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he muttered, “Mea culpa! mea culpa! what have I, a soldier of the Cross, to do with recollection of war betwixt Christian nations!” The rapid expression of feeling corrected by the dictates of duty, did not escape the Moslem, who, if he did not entirely understand all which it conveyed, saw enough to amuse him with the assurance, that Christians, as well as Moslemah, had private feelings of personal pique, and national quarrels, which were not entirely reconcilable. But the Saracens were a race, polished, perhaps, to the utmost extent which their religion permitted, and particularly capable of entertaining high ideas of courtesy and politeness; and such sentiments prevented his taking any notice of the inconsistency of Sir Kenneth’s feelings, in the opposite characters of a Scot and a crusader. Meanwhile, as they advanced, the scene began to change around them. They were now turning to the eastward, and had reached the range of steep and barren hills, which bounds in that quarter the naked plain, and varies the surface of the country, without changing its sterile character. Sharp, rocky eminences began to arise around them, and, in a short time, narrow passages, deep declivities, and ascents, both formidable in height, and difficult from the narrowness of the path, offered to the travellers obstacles of a different kind

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from those with which they had recently contended. Dark caverns and chasms amongst the rocks, those grottoes so often alluded to in Scripture, yawned fearfully on either side as they proceeded, and the Scottish knight was informed by the Emir, that these were often the refuge of beasts of prey, or of men still more ferocious, who, driven to despair by the constant war, and the oppression exercised by the soldiery, as well of the Cross as of the Crescent, had become robbers, and spared neither rank nor religion, neither sex nor age, in their depredations. The Scottish knight listened with indifference to the accounts of ravages committed by wild beasts or wicked men, secure as he felt himself in his own valour and personal strength. But he was struck with mysterious dread, when he recollected that he was now in the awful wilderness of the forty days’ fast, and the scene of the actual personal temptation, wherewith the Evil Principle was permitted to assail the Son of Man. He withdrew his attention gradually from the light and worldly conversation of the infidel warrior beside him, and, however acceptable his gay and gallant bravery would have rendered him as a companion elsewhere, Sir Kenneth felt as if, in those wildernesses—the waste and dry places—in which the foul spirits were wont to wander when expelled the mortals whose frames they oppressed, a bare-footed friar would have been a better companion than the gay but unbelieving Paynim. These feelings embarrassed him; the rather that the Saracen’s spirits appeared to rise with the journey, and because the farther he penetrated into the gloomy recesses of the mountains, the lighter became his conversation, and when he found that unanswered, the louder grew his song. Sir Kenneth knew enough of the eastern languages, to be assured that he chanted sonnets of love, containing all the glowing praises of beauty, in which the oriental poets are fond of luxuriating, and therefore peculiarly unfitted for a serious or devotional strain of thought, the feeling best becoming the Wilderness of the Temptation. With inconsistency enough, the Saracen also sang lays in praise of wine, the liquid ruby of the Persian poets, and his gaiety at length became so unsuitable to the Christian knight’s contrary turn of sentiments, as, but for the promise of amity which they had exchanged, would most likely have made Sir Kenneth take measures to change his note. As it was, he felt as if he had by his side some gay licentious fiend, who endeavoured to ensnare his soul, and endanger his immortal salvation, by inspiring loose thoughts of earthly pleasure, and thus polluting his devotion, at a time when his faith as a Christian, and his vow as a pilgrim, called on him for a serious and penitential state of mind. He was thus greatly perplexed,

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and undecided how to act; and it was in a tone of hasty displeasure, that, at length breaking silence, he interrupted a lay of the celebrated Rudhiki, in which he prefers the mole on his mistress’s bosom to all the wealth of Bokhara and Samarcand. “Saracen,” said the crusader, sternly, “blinded as thou art, and plunged amidst the errors of a false law, thou shouldst yet comprehend that there are some places more holy than others, and that there are some, too, in which the Evil One hath more than ordinary power over sinful mortals. I will not tell thee for what awful reason this place—these rocks—these caverns with their gloomy arches, leading as it were to the central abyss—are held an especial haunt of Satan and his angels. Of this place I have been long warned to beware by wise and holy men, to whom the qualities of the unholy region are well known. Wherefore, Saracen, forbear thy foolish and ill-timed levity, and turn thy thoughts to things more suited to the spot; although—alas for thee!—thy best prayers are but as blasphemy and sin.” The Saracen listened with some surprise, and then replied, with good humour and gaiety, only so far repressed as courtesy required, “Good Sir Kenneth, methinks you deal unequally by your companion, or else courtesy is but indifferently taught amongst your western tribes. I took no offence when I saw you gorge hog’s-flesh and drink wine, and permitted you to enjoy what you called your Christian liberty, only pitying in my heart your foul fashions. Wherefore, then, shouldst thou take scandal, because I cheer, to the best of my power, a gloomy road with a cheerful verse? What saith the poet,—‘Song is like the dews of Heaven on the bosom of the desert; it cools the path of the traveller.’” “Friend Saracen,” said the Christian, “I blame not the love of minstrelsy and of the gai science; albeit we yield unto it even too much room in our thoughts when they should be bent on better things. But prayers and holy psalms are better fitting than lais of love, or of wine-cups, when men walk in this Valley of the Shadow of Death, full of fiends and demons, whom the prayers of holy men have driven forth from the haunts of humanity to wander amidst scenes as accursed as themselves.” “Speak not thus of the Genii, Christian,” answered the Saracen, “for know, thou speakst to one whose line and nation drew their origin from the immortal race, which your sect fear and blaspheme.” “I well thought,” answered the Christian, “that your blinded race had some descent from the foul fiend, without whose aid you would never have been able to maintain this blessed land of Palestine against so many valiant soldiers of God—I speak not thus of thee in

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particular, Saracen, but generally of thy people and religion. Strange is it to me, however, not that you should have the descent from the Evil One, but that you should boast of it.” “From whom should the bravest boast of descending, saving from him that is bravest?” said the Saracen; “from whom should the proudest trace their line so well as from the Dark Spirit, which would rather fall headlong by force, than bend the knee by his will? Eblis may be hated, stranger, but he must be feared; and such as Eblis are his descendants of Kurdistan.” Tales of magic and of necromancy were the learning of the period, and Sir Kenneth heard his companion’s confession of diabolical descent without any disbelief, and without much wonder; yet not without a secret shudder at finding himself in this fearful place, in the company of one who avouched himself to belong to such a lineage. Naturally unsusceptible, however, of fear, he crossed himself, and stoutly demanded of the Saracen an account of the pedigree which he had boasted. The latter readily complied. “Know, brave stranger,” he said, “that when the cruel Zohauk, one of the descendants of Giamschid, held the throne of Persia, he formed a league with the Powers of Darkness, amidst the secret vaults of Istakhar, vaults which the hands of the elementary spirits had hewn out of the living rock long before Adam himself had an existence. Here he fed, with daily oblations of human blood, two devouring serpents, which had become, according to the poets, a part of himself, and to sustain whom he raised a tax of daily human sacrifices, till the exhausted patience of his subjects caused some to raise up the scymitar of resistance, like the valiant blacksmith, and the victorious Feridoun, by whom the tyrant was at length dethroned, and imprisoned for ever in the dismal caverns of the mountain Damavend. But ere that deliverance had taken place, and whilst the power of the blood-thirsty tyrant was at its height, the band of ravening slaves, whom he had sent forth to purvey victims for his daily sacrifice, brought to the vaults of the palace of Istakhar seven sisters so beautiful, that they seemed seven houris. These seven maidens were the daughters of a sage, who had no treasures save their beauties and his own wisdom. The last was not sufficient to foresee this misfortune, the former seemed ineffectual to prevent it. The eldest exceeded not her twentieth year, the youngest had scarce attained her thirteenth; and so like were they to each other, that they could not have been distinguished but for the difference of height, in which they gradually rose in easy gradation above each other, like the ascent which leads to the gates of Paradise. So lovely were these seven sisters when they stood in the darksome vault,

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disrobed of all clothing saving a cymar of white silk, that their charms moved the hearts of those who were not mortal. Thunder muttered, the earth shook, the wall of the vault was rent, and at the chasm entered one dressed like a hunter, with bow and shafts, and followed by six others, his brethren. They were tall men, and though dark, yet comely to behold, but their eyes had more the glare of those of the dead, than the light which lives under the eye-lids of the living. ‘Zeineb,’ said the leader of the band,—and as he spoke he took the eldest sister by the hand, and his voice was soft, low, and melancholy,—‘I am Cothrob, king of the subterranean world, and supreme chief of Ginnistan. I and my brethren are of those who, created out of the pure elementary fire, disdained, even at the command of Omnipotence, to do homage to a clod of earth, because it was called Man. Thou mayst have heard of us as cruel, unrelenting, and persecuting—it is false—we are by nature kind and generous— only vengeful when insulted, only cruel when offended. We are true to those who trust us; and we have heard the invocations of thy father, the sage Mithrasp, who wisely worships not alone the source of Good, but that which is called the source of Evil. You and your sisters are on the eve of death; but let each give to us one hair from your fair tresses, in token of fealty, and we will convey you many miles from hence to a place of safety, where you may bid defiance to Zohauk and his monsters.’ The fear of instant death, saith the poet, is like the rod of the prophet Haroun, which devoured all other rods, when transformed into snakes before the King of Pharaoh; and the daughters of a Persian sage were less apt than others to be afraid of the addresses of a spirit. They gave the tribute which Cothrob demanded, and in an instant the sisters were transported to an enchanted castle on the mountains of Tugrut, in Kurdistan, and were never seen by mortal eye. But in process of time seven youths, distinguished in the war and in the chase, appeared in the environs of the castle of the demons. They were darker, taller, fiercer, and more resolute, than any of the scattered inhabitants of the valleys of Kurdistan; and they took to themselves wives, and became fathers of the seven tribes of the Kurdmans, whose valour is known throughout the universe.” The Christian knight heard with wonder the wild tale, of which Kurdistan still possesses the traces, and, after a moment’s thought, replied, “Verily, Sir Knight, you have spoken well—your genealogy may be dreaded and hated, but it cannot be contemned. Neither do I any longer wonder at your obstinacy in a false faith; since doubtless it is part of the fiendish disposition which hath descended from your ancestors, those infernal huntsmen, as you have described them, to

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love falsehood rather than truth; and I no longer marvel that your spirits become high and exalted, and vent themselves in verse and in tunes, when you approach to the places encumbered by the haunting of evil spirits, which must excite in you that joyous feeling which others experience, when approaching the land of their human ancestry.” “By my father’s beard, I think thou hast the right,” said the Saracen, rather amused than offended by the freedom with which the Christian had uttered his reflections; “for, though the Prophet (blessed be his name!) hath sown amongst us the seed of a better faith than our ancestors learned in the ghostly halls of Tugrut, yet we are not willing, like other Moslemah, to pass hasty doom on the lofty and powerful elementary spirits from whom we claim our origin. These Genii, according to our belief and hope, are not altogether reprobate, but are still in the way of probation, and may hereafter be punished or rewarded. Leave we this to the mollahs and the imaums. Enough that with us the reverence for these spirits is not altogether effaced by what we have learned from the Koran, and that many of us still sing, in memorial of our fathers’ more ancient faith, such verses as these.” So saying, he proceeded to chant some verses, very ancient in the language and structure, which some have thought derive their source from the worshippers of Arimanes, or the Evil Principle. AHRIMAN Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still Holds origin of woe and ill! When, bending at thy shrine, We view the world with troubled eye, Where see we ’neath the extended sky, An empire matching thine! If the Benigner Power can yield A fountain in the desert field, Where weary pilgrims drink; Thine are the waves that lash the rock, Thine the tornado’s deadly shock, Where countless navies sink! Or if He bid the soil dispense Balsams to cheer the sinking sense, How few can they deliver From lingering pains, or pang intense, Red Fever, spotted Pestilence, The arrows of thy quiver! Chief in Man’s bosom sits thy sway, And frequent, while in words we pray

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Before another throne, Whate’er of specious form be there, The secret meaning of the prayer Is, Ahriman, thine own. Say, hast thou feeling, sense, and form, Thunder thy voice, thy garments storm, As Eastern Magi say; With sentient soul of hate and wrath, And wings to sweep thy deadly path, And fangs to tear thy prey? Or art thou mix’d in Nature’s source, An ever operating force, Converting good to ill; An evil principle innate, Contending with our better fate, And oh! victorious still? Howe’er it be, dispute is vain, On all without thou hold’st thy reign, Nor less on all within— Each mortal passion’s fierce career, Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear, Thou goadest into sin. Whene’er a sunny gleam appears, To brighten up our vale of tears, Thou art not distant far; ’Mid such brief solace of our lives, Thou whett’st our very banquet-knives To tools of death and war. Thus, from the moment of our birth, Long as we linger on the earth, Thou rulest the fate of men; Thine are the pangs of life’s last hour, And—who dare answer?—is thy power, Dark Spirit! ended T ?*

These verses may perhaps have been the not unnatural effusion of some half-enlightened philosopher, who, in the fabled deity, Ahrimanes, saw but the prevalence of moral and physical evil; but in the ears of Sir Kenneth of the Leopard, they had a different sound, * The worthy and learned clergyman, by whom this species of hymn has been translated, desires, that, for fear of misconception, we should warn the reader to recollect, that it is composed by a heathen, to whom the real cause of moral and physical evil are unknown, and who views their predominance in the system of the universe, as all must view that appalling fact, who have not the benefit of the Christian revelation. On our own part, we beg to add, that we understand the style of the translation is more paraphrastic than can be approved by those who are acquainted with the singularly curious original. The translator seems to have despaired of rendering into English verse the flights of Oriental poetry; and, possibly, like many learned and ingenious men, finding it impossible to find out the sense of the original, he may have tacitly substituted his own.

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and, sung as they were by one who had just boasted himself a descendant of demons, sounded very like an address of worship to the Arch-fiend himself. He weighed within himself, whether, on hearing such blasphemy in the very desert where Satan had stood rebuked for demanding homage, taking an abrupt leave of the Saracen was sufficient to testify his abhorrence; or whether he was not rather constrained by his vow as a crusader, to defy the infidel to combat on the spot, and leave him food for the beasts of the wilderness, when his attention was suddenly caught by an unexpected apparition. The light was now verging low, yet served the knight still to discover that they two were no longer alone in the forest, but were closely watched by a figure of great height and very thin, which skipped over rocks and bushes with so much agility, as, added to the wild and hirsute appearance of the individual, reminded him of the fauns and sylvans, whose images he had seen in the ancient temples of Rome. As the single-hearted Scotsman had never for a moment doubted these gods of the ancient Gentiles were actually devils, so he now hesitated not to believe that the blasphemous hymn of the Saracen had raised up an infernal spirit. “But what recks it!” said stout Sir Kenneth to himself; “down with the fiend and his worshippers!” He did not, however, think it necessary to give the same warning of defiance to two enemies, as he would unquestionably have afforded to one. His hand was upon his mace, and perhaps the unwary Saracen would have been paid for his Persian poetry, by having his brains dashed out on the spot without any reason assigned for it; but the Scottish knight was saved from committing what would have been a sore blot in his shield of arms. The figure, on which his eyes had been fixed for some time, had at first appeared to dog their path by concealing itself behind rocks and shrubs, using those advantages of the ground with great address, and surmounting its irregularities with surprising agility. At length, just as the Saracen paused in his song, the figure, which was that of a tall man clothed in goat-skins, sprung into the midst of the path, and seized a rein of the Saracen’s bridle in either hand, confronting thus and bearing back the noble horse, which, unable to endure the manner in which this sudden assailant pressed the long-armed bit, and the severe curb, which, according to the eastern fashion, was a solid ring of iron, reared upright, and finally fell backwards on his master, who, however, avoided the peril of the fall, by lightly throwing himself to one side. The assailant then shifted his grasp from the bridle of the horse to the throat of the rider, flung himself above the struggling Saracen,

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and, despite of his youth and activity, kept him undermost, wreathing his long arms above those of his prisoner, who called out angrily, and yet half-laughing at the same time—“Hamako—fool—unloose me—this passes thy privilege—unloose me, or I will use my dagger.” “Thy dagger?—infidel dog!” said the figure in the goat-skins, “hold it in thy gripe if thou canst—” and in an instant he wrenched the weapon out of its owner’s hand, and brandished it over his head. “Help, Nazarene!” cried Sheerkohf, now seriously alarmed; “help, or the Hamako will slay me.” “Slay thee!” replied the dweller of the desert; “and well hast thou merited death, for singing thy blasphemous hymns, not only to the praise of thy false prophet, who is the foul fiend’s harbinger, but to that of the Author of Evil himself.” The Christian knight had hitherto looked on as one stupified, so strangely had this rencontre contradicted, in its progress and event, all that he had previously conjectured. He felt, however, at length, that it touched his honour to interfere in behalf of his discomfited companion; and therefore addressed himself to the victorious figure in the goat-skins. “Whosoever thou art,” he said, “and whether of good or of evil, know that I am sworn for the time to be true companion to the Saracen whom thou holdest under thee—therefore, I pray thee to let him arise, else I will do battle with thee in his behalf.” “And a proper quarrel it were for a crusader to do battle in—for the sake of an unbaptized dog to combat one of his own holy faith— Art thou come forth to the wilderness to fight for the Crescent against the Cross? A goodly soldier of God art thou, to listen to those who sing the praises of Satan!” Yet, while he spoke thus, he arose himself, and, suffering the Saracen to arise also, returned him his cangiar, or poniard. “Thou seest to what a point of peril thy presumption hath brought thee,” continued he of the goat-skins, now addressing Sheerkohf, “and by what weak means thy practised skill and boasted agility can be foiled, when such is Heaven’s pleasure. Wherefore, beware, O Ilderim, for know that, were there not a twinkle in the star of thy nativity, which promises for thee something that is good and gracious in Heaven’s good time, we two had not parted till I had torn asunder the throat which so lately trilled forth blasphemies.” “Hamako,” said the Saracen, without any appearance of resenting the violent language, and yet more violent assault, to which he had been subject, “I pray thee, good Hamako, to beware how thou doest again urge thy privilege over far. For though, as a good Moslem, I respect those whom Heaven hath deprived of ordinary reason, in

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order to endow them with the spirit of prophesy, yet I like not other men’s hands on the bridle of my horse, neither upon my own person. Speak, therefore, what thou wilt, secure of any resentment from me; but gather so much sense as to apprehend, that if thou shalt again proffer me any violence, I will strike thy shagged head from thy meagre shoulders.—And to thee, friend Kenneth,” he added, as he remounted his steed, “I must needs say, that, in a companion through the desert, I love friendly deeds better than fair words—of the last thou hast given me enough; but it had been better to have aided me more speedily in my struggle with this Hamako, who had well nigh taken my life in his frenzy.” “By my faith,” said the Knight, “I did somewhat fail—was somewhat tardy—in rendering thee instant help—But the strangeness of the assailant—the suddenness of the scene—it was as if thy wild and wicked lay had raised the devil amongst us—and such was my confusion, that two or three minutes elapsed ere I could take to my weapon.” “Thou art but a cold and considerate friend,” said the Saracen; “and, had the Hamako been one grain more frantic, thy companion had been slain by thy side, to thy eternal dishonour, without thy stirring a finger in his aid, although thou satest by, mounted, and in arms.” “By my word, Saracen,” said the Christian, “if thou wilt have it in plain terms, I thought that strange figure was the devil; and being of thy lineage, I knew not what family secret you might be communicating to each other, as you lay lovingly rolling together on the sand.” “Thy gibe is no answer, brother Kenneth,” said the Saracen; “for know, that had my assailant been in very deed the Prince of Darkness, thou wert bound not the less to enter into combat with him in thy comrade’s behalf. Know, also, that whatever there may be of foul or of fiendish about the Hamako, belongs more to your lineage than to mine; this Hamako being, in truth, the anchoret whom thou art come hither to visit.” “This—” said Sir Kenneth, looking at the athletic yet wasted figure before him—“this—thou mockest, Saracen—this cannot be the venerable Theodorick!” “Ask himself, if thou wilt not believe me,” answered Sheerkohf; and ere the words had left his mouth, the hermit gave evidence in his own behalf. “I am Theodorick of Engaddi,” he said—“I am the walker of the desert—I am friend of the cross, and flail of all infidels, heretics, and devil-worshippers. Avoid ye, avoid ye!—Down with Mahound, Termagaunt, and all their adherents!”—So saying, he pulled from

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under his shaggy garment a sort of flail or jointed club, bound with iron, which he brandished round his head with singular dexterity. “Thou seest thy saint,” said the Saracen, laughing, for the first time, at the unmitigated astonishment with which Kenneth looked on the wild gestures, and heard the wayward muttering of Theodorick, who, after swinging his flail in every direction, apparently quite reckless whether it encountered the head of either of his companions, finally shewed his own strength, and the soundness of the weapon, by striking into fragments a large stone which lay near him. “This is a madman,” said Sir Kenneth. “Not the worse saint,” returned the Moslem, speaking according to the well-known Eastern belief, that madmen are under the influence of immediate inspiration. “Know, Christian, that when one eye is extinguished, the other becomes more keen—when one hand is cut off, the other becometh more powerful; so, when our reason in human things is diminished or destroyed, our view heavenward becomes more acute and perfect.” Here the voice of the Saracen was drowned in that of the hermit, who began to hollo aloud in a wild chanting tone,—“I am Theodorick of Engaddi—I am the torch-bearer of the desert—I am the flail of the infidels—the lion and the leopard shall be my comrades, and draw nigh to my cell for shelter—neither shall the kid be afraid of their fangs—I am the torch and the lanthorn—Kyrie Eleison!” He closed his song by a short race, and ended that again by three forward bounds, which would have done him great credit in a gymnastic academy, but became his character of hermit so indifferently, that the Scottish knight was altogether confounded and bewildered. The Saracen seemed to understand him better. “You see,” he said, “that he expects us to follow him to his cell, which, indeed, is our only place of refuge for the night. You are the leopard, from the portrait on your shield—I am the lion, as my name imports—and, by the goat, alluding to his garb of goat-skins, he means himself. We must keep him in sight, however, for he is as fleet as a dromedary.” In fact, the task was a difficult one, for though the reverend guide stopped from time to time, and waved his hand, as if to encourage them to come on, yet, well acquainted with all the winding dells and passes of the desert, and gifted with uncommon activity, which, perhaps, an unsettled state of mind kept in constant exercise, he led the knights through chasms, and along foot-paths, where even the light-armed Saracen, with his well-trained barb, was in considerable risk, and where the iron-sheathed European, and his over-burdened horse, found themselves in such imminent peril, as the rider would

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gladly have exchanged for the dangers of a general action. Glad man he was when, at length, after this wild race, he beheld the holy man who had led it standing in front of a cavern, with a large torch in his hand, composed of wood dipped in bitumen, which cast a broad and flickering light, and emitted a strong sulphureous smell. Undeterred by the stifling vapour, the knight threw himself from his horse and entered the cavern, which afforded small appearance of accommodation. The cell was divided into two parts, in the outward of which were an altar of stone, and a crucifix made of reeds: This served the anchoret for his chapel. On one side of this outward cave the Christian knight, though not without scruple, arising from religious reverence to the objects around, fastened up his horse, and aranged him for the night, in imitation of the Saracen, who gave him to understand that such was the custom of the place. The hermit, meanwhile, was busied putting his inner apartment in order to receive his guests, and there they soon joined him. At the bottom of the outer cave, a small aperture, closed with a door of rough plank, led into the sleeping apartment of the hermit, which was more commodious. The floor had been brought to a rough level by the labour of the inhabitant, and then strewed with white sand, which he daily sprinkled with water from a small fountain which bubbled out of the rock in one corner, affording, in that stifling climate, refreshment alike to the ear and the taste. Mattresses, wrought of twisted flags, lay by the side of the cell; the sides, like the floor, had been roughly brought to shape, and several herbs and flowers were hung around them. Two waxen torches, which the hermit lighted, gave a cheerful air to the place, which was rendered agreeable by its fragrance and coolness. There were implements of labour in one corner of the apartment, in another was a niche for a rude statue of the Virgin. A table and two chairs shewed that they must be the handwork of the anchoret, being different in their form from oriental accommodations. The former was covered, not only with reeds and pulse, but also with dried flesh, which Theodorick assiduously placed in such arrangement as should invite the appetite of his guests. This appearance of courtesy, though mute, and expressed by gesture only, seemed to Sir Kenneth something entirely irreconcilable with his former wild and violent demeanour. The steps of the hermit were composed, and apparently it was only a sense of religious humiliation which prevented his features, emaciated as they were by his austere mode of life, from being majestic and noble. He trod his cell, as one who seemed born to rule over men, but who had abdicated his empire to become the servant of Heaven. Still, it must be allowed that his

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gigantic size, the length of his unshaven locks and beard, and the fire of a deep-set and wild eye, were rather attributes of a soldier than of a recluse. Even the Saracen seemed to regard the anchoret with some veneration, while he was thus employed, and he whispered in a low tone to Sir Kenneth, “The Hamako is now in his better mind, but he will not speak until we have eaten—such is his vow.” It was in silence, accordingly, that Theodorick motioned to the Scot to take his place on one of the low chairs, while Sheerkohf placed himself, after the custom of his nation, upon a cushion of mats. The hermit then held up both hands, as if blessing the refreshment which he had placed before his guests, and they proceeded to eat in silence as profound as his own. To the Saracen this gravity was natural, and the Christian imitated his taciturnity, while he employed his thoughts on the singularity of his own situation, and the contrast betwixt the wild, furious gesticulations, loud cries, and fierce actions of Theodorick, when they first met him, and the demure, solemn, decorous assiduity with which he now performed the duties of hospitality. When their meal was ended, the hermit, who had not himself eaten a morsel, removed the fragments from the table, and placing before the Saracen a pitcher of sherbet, assigned to the Scot a flask of wine. “Drink,” he said, “my children,”—they were the first words he had spoken,—“the gifts of God are to be enjoyed, when the Giver is remembered.” Having said this, he retired to the outward cell, probably for performance of his devotions, and left his guests together in the inner apartment; when Kenneth endeavoured, by various questions, to draw from Sheerkohf what that Emir knew concerning his host. He was interested by more than mere curiosity in these inquiries. Difficult as it was to reconcile the outrageous demeanour of the solitary, at his first appearance, to his present humble and placid behaviour, it seemed yet more impossible to think it consistent with the high consideration in which, according to what Sir Kenneth had learned, this hermit was held by the most enlightened divines of the Christian world. Theodorick, the hermit of Engaddi, had, in that character, been the correspondent of popes and councils; to whom his letters, full of eloquent fervour, had described the miseries imposed by the unbelievers upon the Latin Christians in the Holy Land, in colours scarce inferior to those employed at the Council of Clermont by the Hermit Peter, when he preached the first crusade. To find, in a person so reverend, and so much revered, the frantic

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gestures of a mad fakir, induced the Christian knight to pause ere he could resolve to communicate to him certain important matters, which he had in charge from some of the leaders of the crusade. It had been a main object of his pilgrimage, attempted by a route so unusual, to make such communications; but what he had that night seen induced him to pause and reflect ere he proceeded to the execution of his commission. From the Emir he could not extract much information, but the general tenor was as follows:—That, as he had heard, the hermit had been once a brave and valiant soldier, wise in counsel, and fortunate in battle, which last he could easily believe from the great strength and agility which he had often seen him display;—that he had appeared at Jerusalem in the character not of a pilgrim, but one who had devoted himself to dwell for the remainder of his life in the Holy Land. Shortly afterwards, he fixed his residence amid the scenes of desolation where they now found him, respected by the Latins for his austere devotion, and by the Turks and Arabs on account of the symptoms of insanity which he displayed, and which they ascribed to inspiration. It was from them he had the name of Hamako, which expresses such a character in the Turkish language. Sheerkohf himself seemed at a loss how to rank their host. He had been, he said, a wise man, and could often for many hours together speak lessons of virtue or wisdom, without the slightest appearance of inaccuracy. At other times he was wild and violent, but never before had he seen him so mischievously disposed as he had that day appeared to be. His rage was chiefly provoked by any affront to his religion; and there was a story of some wandering Arabs, who had insulted his worship and defaced his altar, and whom he had on that account attacked and slain with the short flail, which he carried with him in lieu of all other weapons. This incident had made much noise, and it was as much the fear of the hermit’s iron flail, as regard for his character as a Hamako, which caused the roving tribes to respect his dwelling and his chapel. His fame had spread so far, that Saladin had issued particular orders that he should be spared and protected. He himself, and other Moslem lords of rank, had visited the cell more than once, partly from curiosity, partly that they expected from a man so learned as the Christian Hamako, some insight into the secrets of futurity. “He had,” continued the Saracen, “a rashid, or observatory, of great height, contrived to view the heavenly bodies, and particularly the planetary system; by whose movements and influences, as both Christian and Moslem believed, the course of human events was regulated, and might be predicted.” This was the substance of the Emir Sheerkohf’s information, and

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it left Sir Kenneth in doubt whether the character of insanity arose from the occasional excessive fervour of the hermit’s zeal, or whether it was not altogether fictitious, and assumed for the sake of the immunities which it afforded. Yet it seemed that they had carried their complaisance towards him to an uncommon length, considering the fanaticism of the followers of Mahommed, in the midst of whom he was living, though the professed enemy of their faith. He thought also there was more intimacy of acquaintance betwixt the hermit and the Saracen, than the words of the latter had induced him to anticipate; and it had not escaped him, that the former had called the latter by a name different from that which he himself had assumed. All these considerations authorised caution, if not suspicion. He determined to observe his host closely, and not to be over hasty in communicating with him on the important charge intrusted to him. “Brave Saracen,” he said; “methinks our host’s imagination wanders as well on the subject of names as upon other matters. Thy name is Sheerkohf, and he called thee but now by another.” “My name, when in the tent of my father,” replied the Kurdman, “was Ilderim, and by this I am still distinguished by many—In the field, and to soldiers, I am known as the Lion of the Mountain, being the name my good sword hath won for me.—But hush, the Hamako comes—it is to warn us to rest—I know his custom—none must watch him at his vigils.” The anchoret accordingly entered, and folding his arms on his bosom as he stood before them, said with a solemn voice,—“Blessed be His name, who hath appointed the quiet night to follow the busy day, and the calm sleep to refresh the wearied limbs, and to compose the troubled spirit.” Both warriors replied “Amen!” and, arising from the table, prepared to betake themselves to the couches, which their host indicated by waving his hand, as, making a reverence to each, he again withdrew from the apartment. The Knight of the Leopard then disarmed himself of his heavy panoply, his Saracen companion kindly assisting him to undo the buckler and clasps, until he remained in the close dress of chamois leather, which knights and men-at-arms used to wear under their harness. The Saracen, if he had admired the strength of his adversary when sheathed in steel, was now no less struck with the accuracy of proportion displayed in his nervous and well-compacted figure. The knight, on the other hand, as, in exchange of courtesy, he assisted the Saracen to disrobe himself of his upper garments, that he might sleep with more convenience, was, on his side, at a loss to conceive

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how such slender proportions, and slimness of figure, could be reconciled with the vigour he had displayed in personal contest. Each warrior prayed, ere he addressed himself to his place of rest. The Moslem turned towards his kebla, the point to which the prayer of each follower of the Prophet was to be addressed, and murmured his heathen orisons, while the Christian, withdrawing from the contamination of the infidel’s neighbourhood, placed his huge crosshandled sword upright, and kneeling before it as the sign of salvation, told his rosary with a devotion, enhanced by the recollection of the scenes through which he had passed, and the dangers from which he had been rescued in the course of the day. Both warriors, worn by toil and travel, were soon fast asleep, each on his separate pallet.

Chapter Four K   , the Scot, was uncertain how long his senses had been lost in profound repose, when he was roused to recollection by a sense of oppression on his chest, which at first suggested a flitting dream of struggling with a powerful opponent, and at length recalled him fully to his senses. He was about to demand who was there, when, opening his eyes, he beheld the figure of the anchoret, wild and savage-looking as we have described him, standing by his bedside, and pressing his right hand upon his breast, while he held a small silver lamp in the other. “Be silent,” said the hermit, as the prostrate knight looked up in surprise; “I have that to say to you which yonder infidel must not hear.” These words he spoke in the French language, and not in the lingua franca, or compound of Eastern and European dialects, which had hitherto been used amongst them. “Arise,” he continued, “do on thy mantle—speak not, but tread lightly, and follow me.” Sir Kenneth arose, and took his sword. “It needs not,” answered the anchoret, in a whisper; “we are going where spiritual arms avail much, and fleshly weapons are but as the reed and the decayed gourd.” The knight deposited his sword by the bedside as before, and, armed only with his dagger, from which in this perilous country he never parted, prepared to attend his mysterious host. The hermit then moved slowly forwards, and was followed by the knight, still under some uncertainty whether the dark form which glided on before to shew him the path, was not, in fact, the creation

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of a disturbed dream. They passed, like shadows, into the outer apartment, without disturbing the paynim Emir, who lay still buried in repose. Before the cross and altar, in the outward room, a lamp was still burning, a missal was displayed, and on the floor lay a discipline, or penitential scourge of small cord and wire, the lashes of which were recently stained with blood, a token, no doubt, of the severe penance of the recluse. Here Theodorick kneeled down, and pointed to the knight to take his place beside him upon the sharp flints, which seemed placed for the purpose of rendering the posture of reverential devotion as uneasy as possible; he read necessary prayers of the Catholic Church, and chanted, in a low but earnest voice, three of the penitential psalms. These last he intermixed with sighs and tears, and convulsive throbs, which bore witness how deeply he felt the divine poetry which he recited. The Scottish knight assisted with profound sincerity at these acts of devotion, his opinions of his host beginning, in the meantime, to be so much changed, that he doubted whether, from the severities of his penance, and the ardour of his prayers, he ought not to regard him as a saint; and when they arose from the ground, he stood with reverence before him, as a pupil before an honoured master. The hermit was on his side silent and abstracted, for the space of a few minutes. “Look into yonder recess, my son,” he said, pointing to the farther corner of the cell; “there thou wilt find a veil—bring it hither.” The knight obeyed; and, in a small aperture cut out of the wall, and secured with a door of wicker, he found the veil which he inquired for. When he brought it to the light, he discovered that it was torn, and soiled in some places with some dark substance. The anchoret looked at it with a deep but smothered emotion, and ere he could speak to the Scottish knight, was compelled to vent his feelings in a convulsive groan. “Thou art now about to look upon the richest treasure that the earth possesses,” he at length said; “woe is me, that my eyes are unworthy to be lifted towards it—Alas, I am but the vile and despised sign, which points out to the wearied traveller a harbour of rest and security, but must itself remain forever without doors. In vain have I fled to the very depths of the rocks, and the very bosom of the thirsty desert. Mine enemy hath found me—even he whom I have denied has pursued me to my fortresses.” He paused again for a moment, and turning to the Scottish knight, said, in a firmer tone of voice, “You bring me a greeting from Richard of England?” “I come from the Council of Christian princes,” said the knight;

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“but the King of England being indisposed, I am not honoured with his Majesty’s commands.” “Your token?” demanded the solitary. Kenneth hesitated—former suspicions, and the marks of insanity which the hermit had formerly exhibited, rushed suddenly on his thoughts; but how suspect a man whose manners seemed so saintly? —“My pass-word,” he said, “is this—kings begged of a beggar.” “It is right,” said the hermit, while he paused; “I know you well; but the sentinel upon his post—and mine is an important one— challenges friend as well as foe.” He then moved forward with the lamp, leading the way into the room which they had left. The Saracen lay on his couch, still fast asleep. The hermit paused by his side, and looked down on him. “He sleeps,” he said, “in darkness, and must not be awakened.” The attitude of the Emir did indeed convey the idea of profound repose. One arm, flung across his body, as he lay with his face half turned to the wall, concealed, with its loose and long sleeve, the greater part of his face; but the high forehead was yet visible. Its nerves, which during his waking hours were so uncommonly active, were now motionless as if the face had been composed of dark marble, and his long silken eye-lashes closed over his piercing and hawk-like eyes. The open and relaxed hand, and the deep, regular, and soft breathing, gave all tokens of the most profound repose. The slumberer formed a singular group along with the tall forms of the hermit in his shaggy dress of goat-skins, bearing the lamp, and the knight in his close leathern coat; the former with an austere expression of ascetic gloom, the latter with anxious curiosity deeply impressed on his manly features. “He sleeps soundly,” said the hermit, in the same low tone as before, and repeating the words, though he had changed the idea from that which is literal to a metaphorical sense,—“He sleeps in darkness, but there shall be for him a day-spring.—O, Ilderim, thy waking thoughts are yet as vain and wild as those which are wheeling their giddy dance through thy sleeping brain; but the trumpet shall be heard, and the dream shall be dissolved.” So saying, and making the knight a sign to follow him, the hermit went towards the altar, and passing behind it, pressed a spring, which, opening without noise, showed a small iron door wrought in the side of the cavern, so as to be almost imperceptible, unless upon the most severe scrutiny. The hermit, ere he ventured fully to open the door, dropped some oil on the hinges, which the lamp supplied. A small stair-case, hewn in the rock, was discovered, when the iron door was at length completely opened.

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“Take the veil which I hold,” said the hermit in a melancholy tone; “and blind mine eyes; for I may not look on the treasure which thou art presently to behold, without sin and presumption.” Without reply, the knight hastily muffled the recluse’s head in the veil, and the latter began to ascend the staircase as one too much accustomed to the way to require the use of light, while at the same time he held the lamp to the Scot, who followed him for many steps up the narrow ascent. At length they rested in a small vault of irregular form, in one nook of which the staircase terminated, while in another corner a corresponding stair was seen to continue the ascent. In a third angle was a Gothic door, very rudely ornamented with the usual attributes of clustered columns and carving, and defended by a wicket, strongly guarded with iron, and studded with large nails. To this last point the hermit directed his steps, which seemed to falter as he approached it. “Put off thy shoes,” he said to his attendant; “the ground on which thou standest is holy. Banish from thy innermost heart each profane and carnal thought, for to harbour such while in this place, were a deadly impiety.” The knight laid aside his shoes as he was commanded, and the hermit stood in the meanwhile as if communing with his soul in secret prayer, and when he again moved, commanded the knight to knock at the wicket three times. He did so. The door opened spontaneously, at least Sir Kenneth beheld no one, and his senses were at once assailed by a stream of the purest light, and by a strong and almost oppressive sense of the richest perfumes. He stepped two or three paces back, and it was the space of a minute ere he recovered the dazzling and overpowering effects of the sudden change from darkness to light. When he entered the apartment in which this brilliant lustre was displayed, he perceived that the light proceeded from a combination of silver lamps, fed with purest oil, and sending forth the richest odours, hanging by silver chains from the roof of a small Gothic chapel, hewn, like most part of the hermit’s singular mansion, out of the sound and solid rock. But, whereas, in every other place which 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, and of the age. Corresponding to the line of pillars, there were on each side six richly wrought

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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 whom 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, V    C , at the same time a choir of female voices sang G      P . 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, couching, 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 burthen 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 folds in which his head was muffled, and which sounded like a voice proceeding from the cearments of a corpse,—“Abide—abide—happy thou that mayst—the vision is not yet ended.”—So saying, he raised 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 chapel, appeared so much like a part of the living rock from

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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, Kenneth paced the solitary chapel, till about the time of the earliest cock-crowing. At this dead season, when night and morning meet 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 further 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, as imperceptible, when closed, as 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 open door. First, four beautiful boys, whose arms, neck, and legs, were bare, showing the bronze complexion of the East, and contrasting with the snowwhite 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

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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 Mahommedans 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 was composed 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, moving neither foot nor hand, 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 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 accident 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 thought and the eyes of Kenneth followed exclusively her among the novices who had dropped the rose-bud. 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

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rank of the novices, was more to him, not only than all 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 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 wellproportioned 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 moon-beam through the fleecy cloud of a summer night, and again a rose-bud lay at the feet of the Knight of the Leopard. This second intimation could not be incidental—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 farther proof been awanting, 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 an hundred times than a chain of massive gold—It was the lady of his love! But that she should be here—in this savage and sequestered desert—among vestals, who rendered themselves habitants of deserts 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 doubled intimation, passed also—yet, in passing, turned her head, slightly indeed, but perceptibly, towards the place

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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 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, proper 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, was again retired to the darkness of her sanctuary—or as an influential planet, which, having darted in some auspicious minute one favourable ray, had 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, reward 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 enterprize, 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 eye of woman too lofty

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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 in secret, 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 oftentime happened, that notwithstanding the large 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 honour of one, who had neither palfries nor garments to bestow in guerdon of his applause. These moments when she listened to the praises of her lover became gradually more and more dear to the high-born Edith, relieving the flatteries 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 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 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

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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 can throw fetters even on love itself—forbade her, notwithstanding the superiority of her condition, to make those advances, which, in every case, delicacy demands from male lover. Above all, Kenneth was a knight so gentle and honourable, so fully accomplished, as her imagination at least suggested, 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 or 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 on 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 our 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 free-masonry 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 discerned by younger eyes, defy the power of ours. Enough 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,

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lest he had over-estimated 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 explanation, 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 strong an effect on the feelings of her knight.

Chapter Five Their necromantic forms in vain, Haunt us on the tented plain; We bid these spectre shapes avaunt, Ashtaroth and Termagaunt. W

T       profound silence, the most deep 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 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 shining upwards, as from an opening in the floor, shewed 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,

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with a large head, a cap fantastically adorned with three peacockfeathers, 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 species 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 Kenneth gazed on this disagreeable object, the popular creed occurred to his remembrance, concerning the gnomes, or earthy 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 who rivalled him in ugliness. 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 ascended, and it was a female form, much resembling that of the former in shape and proportions, which slowly emerged from the floor. Her dress was also of red samite, fantastically cut and frounced, as if she had been dressed for some exhibition of mimics or jugglers, and with the same manœuvre which her predecessor had exhibited, she passed the lamp over her face and person, which seemed to rival the male 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 acute 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. Kenneth remained as if spell-bound, while this unlovely pair, moving around the chapel close to each other, seemed 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

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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 more near, 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 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 Nectanabus,” said the abortive-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 it was human beings which he saw before him. “I am,” replied the male dwarf, with much assumed gravity and dignity, “the twelfth Imaum—I am Mahommed Mohadi, the guide and the conductor of the faithful. An 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 Mahommed 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.

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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 lanthorn 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, couching 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 may 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.”

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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 anchoret stripping his shoulders with frantic haste, of their shaggy mantle, and ere he could shut the frail door which separated the two copartments of the cavern, he heard the clang of the scourge of the victim, 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 awakening in the morning, he held certain conferences upon matters of importance, which 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 Six Now change the scene—and let the trumpets sound, For we must rouse the lion from his lair. Old Play Walk in, Ladies and Gentlemen. Exeter Change

T        must change, as our program has announced, from the mountain wilderness of Jordan to the camp of King Richard of England, then stationed betwixt Saint 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 enterprize, and the offence taken by them at the uncurbed haughtiness of the English monarch, and the contempt which he exhibited for the 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

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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 licence 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 whose no greater name is recorded in Eastern history, had learnt, to his fatal experience, that his light-armed followers were little able to meet in close encounter with the iron-clad Franks, and, at the same time, to appreciate and dread the adventurous character of his antagonist Richard. But if his armies were more than once routed with great slaughter, his numbers gave him the advantage in those lighter skirmishes, of which many were inevitable. As the army of his assailants decreased, the enterprizes 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 a perpetual warfare of posts and foragers, in which many valuable lives were lost, without any corresponding objective 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, counter-balanced 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 upon 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

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he was incensed at the delay which this interposed to the progress of the great enterprize, 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 endure, 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 valley, 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

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domestic factions which then tore the former country asunder, and in all had been distinguished, as well for 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 at least as shrewd and as ambitious as 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 glances of the sun start through the clouds of an approaching thunder-storm, which still, however, are gilded by its beams. His manly features shewed the progress of wasting illness, and his beard, neglected and untrimmed, had overgrown both lips and chin. Flinging 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 shewed 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 Sampson, though only after the Israelitish champion’s locks had passed under the sheers of the Philistines, for those of De Vaux were cut short, that they might be inclosed under

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his helmet. The light of his broad, large hazel eye, resembled that of the autumn moon, 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, broadchested, 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. He 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 large size, 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 sylvan 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, showed 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 weighty curtal-axe, which would have wearied

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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 or 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 stirring 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, at least 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 brandished it 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 on 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

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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 mayst 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 laming 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 main-spring of their enterprize: 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 praise which he 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 of 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 shot 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?”

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“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—Dennis Montjoie—his Most Christian Majesty!—mouthfilling words these! There is but one risk—that he might mistake the words En arrière, for en avant, and lead us back to Paris, instead of marching upon 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 Arch-Duke of Austria,” said De Vaux. “What! because he is big and burly like thyself, Thomas—nearly as thick-headed, but without thy lucky indifference to danger, and carelessness of offence? I tell thee that Austria has in all that mass of flesh no better 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 vaults and secret places of abomination and darkness?” “The Grand Master of the Hospitallers of Saint John of Jerusalem

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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 merchandize of by Venetian shippers and Lombardy pedlars, than trust it to the Grand Master of Saint 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 inward vestments from their outward colour. 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 spike-heads. 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 clay, 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 can’st 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 enterprize 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—

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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 emprize.—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.”* 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 outer 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.

* The war-cries of the Moslemah.

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Chapter Seven 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  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, 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 or 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 times 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 his troops of both nations. But upon his illness, and the disadvantageous circumstances in which the crusaders were placed, the national dissension 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

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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 shew 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 that very reason, which 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 for 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 to 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 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 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 negatively, by shunning all intercourse with his Scottish brethren-at-arms, as far as possible,— by observing a sullen taciturnity, when compelled to meet with

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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 unrepaid; 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 those intermediate relations which were too indifferent to him 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, while in this mall, almost the centre of the camp, he could see, 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. Surprised 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 at 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.” Loathe to ask even a passing question, he was about to pass Kenneth, with that sullen and louring port which seems to say, “I

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know thee, but I will hold no communion with thee.” But his purpose was defeated by the Scot, who moved forward directly to meet 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 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.” 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 hostelrie.” “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 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 scymitar in his hand, and an hundred thousand cavaliers at his back. Will it please you, who are of the King’s secret counsel, to cause these camels to be discharged of their burthens, 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, when bad faith would rid him at once of his most powerful adversary?”

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“I myself 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, fair knight, how you became concerned in this affair?” “I have been absent on a pilgrimage, in the course of which,” replied Kenneth, “I had a mission to discharge towards the holy hermit of Engaddi.” “May I not be intrusted, sir, therewith, 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! sayst thou?” said the proud baron. “But know, messenger of the kings and princes as thou mayst 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.” 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 birth-right,” 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, Sir 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* 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 * Los,—laus, praise, or renown.

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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, “this 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 has now, in valiant King Richard, disabled the principal limb of our holy enterprize. This leech—this El Hakim—hath ministered to him not two hours since, and already he hath fallen into a refreshing sleep—that he can cure this 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 truehearted 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 quarters, 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 he with some unwillingness 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 forwards 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 trode these scenes before us, now hold golden harps, and evergreen palms.” This was the most metaphorical speech which Thomas of Gilsland was ever known to utter, the rather, perhaps, (as will sometimes

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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’ rule 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. 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 it is, perhaps, 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, seemed from the articles of armour placed near 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 Kenneth had spoken, a strong-built and harshfeatured 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 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,

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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 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 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 his 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 Kenneth to De Vaux; but had scarce uttered the words,

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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 hand, 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 come back 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 that 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 of you, 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, 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 could have moved him to depart so far out of his sober self-control. Both knights looked on with pleasure; for 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 staunch as he is swift. But let me pray you—speaking in all honour and kindness—have

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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 licence, 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 her forest-laws, nor have I such report of 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 tried 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, fair 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.

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I would, in the meantime, were it no offence, willingly send you what would somewhat mend your cheer.” “I thank you, sir,” said 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 Eight A wise physician, skill’d our wounds to heal, Is more than armies to the common weal. P   ’s Iliad

“T    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 courage as a knight, how sayst 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 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

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outer pavilion, he was shrewd enough to place this temporary selfabasement 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.” “Is he then 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 licences among those knights adventurers, who have no prince or leader to depend upon—they are ungovernable, and will leave no game in Palestine.—But to this piece of learned heathenesse—sayst thou the Scot met him in the desert?” “No, my liege, the Scot’s tale ran 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—I, at least, knew it not—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.”

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“Well, it shall be looked into.—So this Scottish man, this envoy, met with a wandering physician at the grotto of Engaddi—ha?” “Not so, my liege; but he met, I think, near that place, with a Saracen Emir, with whom he had some mêlée 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 your aid 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 shewed 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 Mahommed,” (Out upon the hound! said Richard, spitting in contempt, by way of interjection,) “Saladin, King of Kings, Soldan of Egypt and of Syria, the Light and Refuge of the earth, to the great Melec 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 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; and that, 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 over-wrought by his task-master, nor befits it our fame that a brave adversary be

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snatched from our warfare 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 him 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 in the battle-field, from my own helmet, though the cleansing waters were mixed with the blood of us both— Haste, De Multon, why doest 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 on 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 hesitate before 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 mine own.” “Well, thou suspicious mortal, 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 burthened 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

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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 said, “in their need, and there is reason to think that one cause of their being permitted to remain on earth was that they might minister to the convenience of true Christians—thus, we lawfully make slaves of heathen captives.—Again,” continued 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 Mahommedans. But there are few physicians in the camp excepting Jews, and such are employed without scandal or scruple. Therefore, Mahommedans 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 quotations, as he did not understand a word of them. But the bishop proceeded with far less fluency, when he considered the possibility of the Saracen’s acting in 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 curiously 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,

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ere we consider whether there be safety in permitting him to exercise his art upon King Richard.—Yet hold! let me first take my pouncetbox, 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 needle-work. 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 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,

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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 which we have mentioned, 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 knewst aught of medicine, Giaour,” answered El Hakim, “thou shouldst be aware, that physicians hold no council or debate in the sick chamber of their patient. Hear,” he added, as the low growling of the stag-hound 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 aught 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 the 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 skin-bonnet of the Arabian, which hid also part of a brow which seemed lofty and expanded, smooth, and free from wrinkles, as were his cheeks, unless where shaded by 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 more old than an hundred revolutions of the Hegira.” 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

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his cap in sign of reverence; “a word which was never broken towards friend or foe—what, Nazarene, wouldst thou demand more?” “We would have ocular proof of thy skill,” said the baron, “and without it thou approachest not the couch of King Richard.” “The praise of the physician,” said the Arabian, “is in the recovery of his patient. Behold this serjeant, 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 the reed against a target 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 reft from his body. Disturb me not with farther 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 a token of reverence, and he inquired for his master in a subdued and submissive voice. “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,

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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 experiment, 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 conquering 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 bye-standers 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?” “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.

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“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 Leopard.” “And he is returned,” said De Vaux. “I spoke with him but 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 error.” “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 scarce comprehensible 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 up his shoulders in silent wonder, proceeded to conduct the Arabian physician to the tent of King Richard.

Chapter Nine T  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

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investigate and understand, or at least speculate upon. But it seemed very extraordinary 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, concerning the motions of a beggarly 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 accessary. 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 farther. 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 qualities; and that in the very camp, and amongst those princes bound by oath to the crusade, there were many who would have sacrificed all hope of victory, 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 be all a trick, to which he of the Leopard may be accessary, 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 only considered his general prejudices, which dictated to him the assured belief, that one wily Italian priest, a false-hearted Scot, and an infidel physician, formed a set of ingredients from which all evil, and no good, was like to be extracted. He resolved, however, to lay his scruples bluntly before the King, of whose judgment he had nearly an opinion as high 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, than, betwixt the impatience of the fever, and that which was natural to his disposition, Richard began to murmur at

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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 sun-down, 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 message, 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 blade of William the Lion 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 sayst 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.”

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Richard kept his eye fixed on the Scot’s face, and beholding, smiled 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 do 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 frist, I trust I could supply your royal mess with some choice water-fowl.” “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 enterprize is directed—that indisposition should have, I trust for but a short time, secluded 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 from 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

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reckon roundly—What was the purport of thy message?” “Methinks, an it 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 enterprize, 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 the times 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 restored the fortresses of Roxburgh and Berwick, which lay in pledge to England—I have re-established your ancient boundaries—and, finally, I have renounced a claim to homage, 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——”

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“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!” exclaimed 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 victory, 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. I delivered them sealed to the hermit.” “And for what hold you this renowned hermit?—for fool, madman, traitor, or saint?” said Richard. “His folly, sire,” replied the shrewd Scotchman, “I hold to be assumed to win favour and reverence from the Paynimrie, who hold madmen for the inspired of Heaven; at least it seemed to me as exhibited only occasionally, and as not 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, he despairs of the recovery 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 countenances the coward policy 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

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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, expanded 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 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 Kenneth, “I will speak the truth as in the confessional. In a subterranean chapel, to which the anchoret 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 could not tell whether the Queen of England were 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 crowd to drive this scum of French and Austrians from his dominions, and think

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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 pain 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 baculus, a mystic staff of office, the peculiar form of which has given rise to such singular conjectures and commentaries, leading to suspicions that this fraternity of Christian knights were embodied under the foulest symbols of paganism. Conrade of Montserrat had a much more pleasing exterior than the dark and mysterious priest-soldier by whom he was accompanied. He was a handsome man, of middle age, or something past that term, bold in the field, sagacious in counsel, gay and gallant in times

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of festivity. But, on the other hand, he was generally accused of versatility, of a narrow and selfish ambition, of a desire to extend his own principality, without regard to the weal of the Latin kingdom of Palestine, and of seeking his own interest by private negotiations with Saladin, to the prejudice of the Christian leagues. When the usual salutations had been made by these dignitaries, and courteously returned by King Richard, the Marquis of Montserrat commenced an explanation of the motives of their visit, sent, as he said they were, by the anxious Kings and Princes who composed the Council of the Crusaders, “to inquire into the health of their magnanimous ally, the valiant King of England.” “We know the importance in which the Princes of the Council hold our health,” replied the English King; “and are well aware how much they must have suffered by suppressing all curiosity concerning it for fourteen days, for fear, doubtless, of aggravating our disorder, by showing their anxiety regarding the event.” The flow of the Marquis’s eloquence being checked, and he himself thrown into some confusion by this reply, his more austere companion took up the thread of the conversation, and, with as much dry and brief gravity as was consistent with the presence which he addressed, informed the King that they came from the Council, to pray, in the name of Christendom, “that he would not suffer his health to be tampered with by an infidel physician, said to be dispatched by Saladin, until the Council had taken measures to remove or confirm the suspicion, which they at present conceived did attach itself to the mission of such a person.” “Grand Master of the Holy and Valiant Order of Knights Templars, and you, Most Noble Marquis of Montserrat,” replied Richard, “if it please you to retire into the adjoining pavilion, you shall presently see what account we make of the tender remonstrances of our royal and princely colleagues in this most religious warfare.” The Marquis and Grand Master retired accordingly; nor had they been many minutes in the outward pavilion when the Eastern physician arrived, accompanied by the Baron of Gilsland, and Kenneth of Scotland. The Baron, however, was a little later of entering the tent than the other two, stopping, perchance, to issue some orders to the warders without. As the Arabian physician entered, he made his obeisance, after the oriental fashion, to the Marquis and Grand Master, whose dignity was apparent, both from their appearance and their bearing. The Grand Master returned the salutation with an expression of disdainful coldness, the Marquis, with the popular courtesy which he habitually practised to men of every rank and nation. There was a

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pause; for the Scottish knight, waiting for the arrival of De Vaux, presumed not, of his own authority, to enter the tent of the King of England, and, during this interval, the Grand Master sternly demanded of the Moslem,—“Infidel, hast thou the courage to practise thine art upon the person of an anointed sovereign of the Christian host?” “The sun of Allah,” answered the sage, “shines on the Nazarene as well as on the true believer, and his servant dare make no distinction betwixt them, when called on to exercise his art of healing.” “Unbelieving Hakim,” said the Grand Master, “or whatsoever they call thee for an unbaptized slave of darkness, doest thou well know, that thou shalt be torn asunder by wild horses should King Richard die under thy charge?” “That were hard justice,” answered the physician; “seeing that I can but use human means, and that the issue is written in the book of light.” “Nay, reverend and valiant Grand Master,” said the Marquis of Montserrat, “consider that this learned man is not acquainted with our Christian order, adopted in the fear of God, and for the safety of his anointed.—Be it known to you, grave physician, whose skill we doubt not, that your wisest course is to repair to the presence of the illustrious Council of our Holy League, and there to give account and reckoning to such wise and learned leeches as they shall nominate, concerning your means of process and cure of this illustrious patient; so you shall escape all the charges, which, rashly taking such a high matter upon your sole answer, you may else most likely incur.” “My lords,” said El Hakim, “I understand you well. But knowledge hath its champions as well as your military art, and hath sometimes its martyrs as well as religion. I have the command of my sovereign, the Soldan Saladin, to heal this Nazarene King, and, with the blessing of the Prophet, I will obey his commands. If I fail, ye wear swords thirsty for the blood of the faithful, and I proffer my body to your weapons. But I will not reason with the uncircumcised upon the virtue of the medicines of which I have obtained knowledge, through the grace of the Prophet, and I pray you interpose no delay between me and my office.” “Who talks of delay?” said the Baron de Vaux, hastily entering the tent; “we have but had too much already.—I salute you, my Lord of Montserrat, and you, valiant Grand Master. But I must presently pass with this learned physician to the bed-side of my master.” “My lord,” said the Marquis, in Norman French, or the language

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of Ouie, as it was then called, “are you well advised that we came to expostulate on the part of the Council of the Monarchs and Princes of the Crusade, against the risk of permitting an infidel and eastern physician to tamper with a health so valuable as that of your master King Richard?” “Honoured Lord Marquis,” replied the Englishman, bluntly, “I can neither use many words, nor do I delight in listening to them— moreover, I am much more ready to believe what my eyes have seen, than what my ears may hear. I am satisfied that this heathen can cure the sickness of King Richard, and I believe and trust he will labour to do so—Time is precious—if Mahommed—may God’s curse be on him!—stood at the door of the tent, with such fair purpose as this Adonbec el Hakim entertains, I would hold it sin to delay him for a minute—So, give ye God’den, my lords.” “Nay but,” said Conrade of Montserrat, “the King himself said we should be present when this same physician dealt upon him.” The baron whispered the chamberlain, probably to know whether the Marquis spoke truly, and then replied, “My lords, if you will hold your patience, you are welcome to enter with us; but if you interrupt, by action or threat, this accomplished physician in his duty, be it known, that, without respect to your high quality, I will enforce your absence from Richard’s tent; for know, I am so well satisfied of the virtue of this man’s medicines, that were Richard himself to refuse them, by our Lady of Lanercost, I think I could find in my heart to force him to take the means of his cure, whether he would or no.—Move onward, El Hakim.” The last word was spoken in the lingua franca, and instantly obeyed by the physician. The Grand Master looked grimly on the unceremonious soldier, but, casting his eye on the Marquis, smoothed his frowning brow as well as he could, and both followed De Vaux and the Arabian into the inner tent, where Richard lay expecting them, with that impatience with which the sick patient watches the step of his physician. Sir Kenneth, whose attendance seemed neither asked nor prohibited, felt himself, by the circumstances in which he stood, entitled to follow these high dignitaries, but, conscious of his inferior power and rank, remained aloof during the scene which took place. Richard, when they entered his apartment, immediately exclaimed, “So ho! a goodly fellowship come to see Richard take his leap in the dark.—My noble allies, I greet you as the representatives of our assembled league; Richard will again be amongst you in his former fashion, or ye shall bear to the grave what is left of him.—De Vaux, lives he or dies he, thou hast the thanks of thy prince.—There is yet

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another—but this fever hath wasted mine eyesight—what, the bold Scot, who would climb Heaven without a ladder?—he is welcome too.—Come, Sir Hakim, to the work, to the work.” The physician, who had already informed himself of the various symptoms of the King’s illness, now felt his pulse for a long time, and with deep attention, while all around stood silent, and in breathless expectation. The sage next filled a cup with spring water, and dipped into it the small red purse, which, as formerly, he took from his bosom. When he seemed to think it sufficiently medicated, he was about to offer it to the sovereign, who prevented him, by saying, “Hold an instant.—Thou hast felt my pulse—let me lay my finger on thine.—I too, as becomes a good knight, know something of thine art.” The Arabian yielded his hand without hesitation, and his long slender dark fingers were, for an instant, enclosed, and almost buried, in the large enfoldment of King Richard’s hand. “His blood beats calm as an infant’s—” said the King; “so throb not theirs who poison princes. De Vaux, whether we live or die, dismiss this Hakim with honour and safety—Commend us, friend, to the noble Saladin. Should I die, it is without doubt of his faith— should I live, it will be to thank him as a warrior should be thanked.” He then raised himself in bed, and took the cup in his hand, and, turning to the Marquis and the Grand Master,—“Mark what I say, and let my royal brethren pledge me in Cyprus wine—‘To the immortal honour of the first crusader, who shall strike lance or sword on the gate of Jerusalem; and to the shame and eternal infamy of whomsoever shall turn back from the plough on which he hath laid his hand!’” He drained the cup to the bottom, resigned it to the Arabian, and sunk back, as if exhausted, upon the cushions which were arranged to receive him. The physician, then, with silent but expressive signs, directed that all should leave the tent excepting himself and De Vaux, whom no remonstrance could induce to withdraw. The apartment was cleared accordingly.

Chapter Ten And now I will unclasp a secret book, And, to your quick-conceiving discontent, I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous. Henry IV. Part I

T   M       of Montserrat, and the Grand Master of the Knights Templars, stood together in the front of the royal pavilion,

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within which this singular scene had passed, and beheld a strong guard of bills and bows drawn out to form a circle around it, and keep at distance all which might disturb the sleeping monarch. The soldiers wore the downcast, silent, and sullen looks, with which they trail their arms at a funeral, and stepped with such caution that you could not hear a buckler ring, or a corslet clatter, though so many men in armour were moving around the tent. They lowered their weapons in mute reverence, as the dignitaries passed through their files, but with the same profound silence. “There is a change of cheer among these island dogs,” said the Grand Master to Conrade, when they had passed Richard’s guards. “What hoarse tumult and revel used to be before this pavilion! nought but pitching the bar, hurling the ball, wrestling, roaring of songs, and quaffing of flaggons, among these burly yeomen, as if they were holding some country wake, with a Maypole in the midst of them, instead of a royal standard.” “Mastiffs are a faithful race,” said Conrade; “and the King their master has won their love by being ready to wrestle, brawl, or revel amongst the foremost of them, whenever the humour seized him.” “He is totally compounded of humours,” said the Grand Master. “Marked you the pledge he gave us, instead of a prayer, over his grace-cup yonder?” “He had felt it a grace-cup, and a well-spiced one too,” said the Marquis, “were Saladin like any other Turk that ever wore turban, or turned him to Mecca at call of the Muezzin. But he affects faith, and honour, and generosity,—as if it were for an unbaptized dog like him to practise the virtuous bearing of a Christian knight. It is said he hath applied to Richard to be admitted within the pale of chivalry.” “By Saint Bernard!” exclaimed the Grand Master, “it were time then to throw off our belts and spurs, Sir Conrade, deface our arms, and renounce our burgonets, if the highest honour of Christianity were conferred on an unchristened Turk of tenpence.” “You rate the Soldan cheap,” replied the Marquis; “yet though he be a likely man, I have seen a better sold for forty pence at the bagnio.” They were now near their horses, which stood at some distance from the royal tent, prancing among the gallant train of esquires and pages by whom they were attended, when Conrade, after a moment’s pause, proposed that they should enjoy the coolness of the evening breeze which had arisen, and, dismissing their steeds and attendants, walk homewards to their own quarters, through the lines of the extended Christian camp. The Grand Master assented, and they

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proceeded to walk together accordingly, avoiding, as if by mutual consent, the more inhabited parts of the canvas city, and tracing the broad esplanade which lay between the tents and the external defences, where they could converse in private, and unmarked, save by the sentinels, as they passed them. They spoke for a time upon the military points and preparations for defence; but this sort of discourse, in which neither seemed to take interest, at length died away, and there was a long pause, which terminated by the Marquis of Montserrat stopping short, like a man who has formed a sudden resolution, and, gazing for some moments on the dark inflexible countenance of the Grand Master, he at length addressed him thus:—“Might it consist with your valour and sanctity, reverend Sir Giles Amaury, for once to lay aside the dark vizor which you wear, and to converse with a friend barefaced.” The Templar half-smiled. “There are light-coloured masks,” he said, “as well as dark vizors, and the one conceals the natural features as completely as the other.” “Be it so,” said the Marquis, putting his hand to his chin, and withdrawing it with the action of one who unmasks himself—“there lies my disguise. What think you, as touching the interests of your own order, of the prospects of this crusade?” “This is tearing the veil from my thoughts rather than exposing your own,” said the Grand Master. “Yet I will reply with a parable told to me by a santon of the desert.—‘A certain farmer prayed to Heaven for rain, and murmured when it fell not at his need. To punish his impatience, Allah,’ said the santon, ‘sent the Euphrates upon his farm, and he was destroyed with all his possessions, even by the granting of his own wishes.’ ” “Most truly spoken,” said the Marquis Conrade; “would that the ocean had swallowed up nineteen parts of the armament of these princes! What remained would better have served the purpose of the Christian nobles of Palestine, the wretched remnant of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem. Left to ourselves, we might have bent to the storm, or, moderately supported with money and troops, we might have compelled Saladin to respect our valour, and grant us peace and protection on easy terms. But from the extremity of danger with which this crusade threatens the Soldan, we cannot suppose, should it pass over, that the Saracens will suffer any one of us to hold possessions or principalities in Syria, far less permit the existence of the military fraternities, from whom they have experienced so much mischief.” “Ay, but,” said the Templar, “these adventurous crusaders may succeed, and again plant the Cross on the bulwarks of Zion.”

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“And what will that advantage either the order of the Templars, or Conrade of Montserrat?” said the Marquis. “You it may advantage,” replied the Grand Master. “Conrade of Montserrat might become Conrade, King of Jerusalem.” “That sounds like something,” said the Marquis, “and yet it rings but hollow.—Godfrey of Bouillon might well choose the crown of thorns for his emblem. Grand Master, I will confess to you I have caught some attachment to the eastern form of government. A pure and simple monarchy should consist but of King and subjects. Such is the simple and primitive structure—a shepherd and his flock—All this internal chain of feudal dependence is artificial and sophisticated, and I would rather hold the baton of my poor marquisate with a firm gripe, and wield it after my pleasure, than the sceptre of a nominal king, to be in effect restrained and curbed by the will of as many proud feudal barons as hold land under the Assize of Jerusalem. A King should tread freely, Grand Master, and not be controlled by here a ditch, and there a fen, or here a feudal privilege, and there a mail-clad baron, with his sword in his hand to maintain it. To sum the whole, I am aware that Guy de Lusignan’s claims to the throne would be preferred to mine, if Richard recovers, and has aught to say in the choice.” “Enough,” said the Grand Master; “thou hast indeed convinced me of thy sincerity. Others may hold the same opinions, but few save Conrade of Montserrat dared frankly avow that he desires not the restitution of the kingdom of Jerusalem, but rather prefers being master of a portion of its fragments; like the barbarous islanders, who labour not for the deliverance of a goodly vessel from the billows, expecting rather to enrich themselves at the expense of the wreck.” “Thou wilt not betray my counsel?” said Conrade, looking sharply and suspiciously. “Know for certain, that my tongue shall never wrong my head, nor my hand forsake the defence of either—impeach me if thou wilt—I am prepared to defend myself in the lists against the best Templar who ever laid lance in rest.” “Yet thou start’st too suddenly for so bold a steed,” said the Grand Master. “However, I swear to thee by the Holy Temple, which our Order is sworn to defend, that I will keep counsel with thee as a true comrade.” “By which Temple?” said the Marquis of Montserrat, whose love of sarcasm often outran his policy and discretion; “meanst thou by that on the hill of Zion, which was built by King Solomon, or by that symbolical, emblematical, edifice, which is said to be planned in the councils held in the vaults of your Preceptories, for

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the aggrandizement of thy valiant and venerable Order?” The Templar scowled upon him with eye of death, but answered calmly, “By whatever Temple I swear, be assured, Lord Marquis, my oath is sacred.—I would I knew how to bind thee by one of equal obligation.” “I will swear truth to thee,” said the Marquis, laughing, “by the coronet, which I hope to convert, ere these wars are over, into something better. It feels cold on my brow, that same slight coronal; a duke’s cap of maintenance were a better protection against such a night-breeze as now blows, and a king’s crown more preferable still, being lined with comfortable ermine and velvet. In a word, our interests bind us together. For think not, Lord Grand Master, that were these allied Princes to regain Jerusalem, and place a king of their own choosing there, they would suffer your Order, any more than my poor marquisate, to retain the independence which we now hold. No, by Our Lady! In such case the proud Knights of Saint John must again spread plasters, and dress plague-sores, in the hospitals; and you, most puissant and venerable Knights of the Temple, must return to your condition of simple men-at-arms, sleep three on a pallet, and mount two upon one horse, as your present seal still expresses to have been your ancient most simple custom.” “The rank, privileges, and opulence of our Order prevent so much degradation as you threaten,” said the Templar, haughtily. “These are your bane,” said Conrade of Montserrat; “and you, reverend Grand Master, know as well as I, that were the allied Princes to be successful in Palestine, it would be their first point of policy to abate the independence of your Order, which, but for the protection of our holy father the Pope, and the necessity of employing your valour in the conquest of Palestine, you would long since have experienced—Give them complete success, and you will be flung aside, as the splinters of a broken lance are tossed out of the tiltyard.” “There may be truth in what you say,” said the Templar, darkly smiling; “but what were our hopes should the allies withdraw their forces, and leave Palestine in the grasp of Saladin?” “Great and assured,” replied Conrade; “the Soldan would give large provinces to maintain at his behest a body of well-appointed Frankish lances. In Egypt, in Persia, an hundred such auxiliaries, joined to his own light cavalry, would turn the battle against the most fearful odds. This dependence would be but for a time— perhaps during the life of this enterprizing Soldan—but in the East, empires arise like mushrooms. Suppose him dead, and us

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strengthened with a constant accession of fiery and adventurous spirits from Europe, what might we not hope to achieve, uncontrolled by these monarchs, whose dignity throws us at present into the shade—and were they to remain here and succeed in this expedition, would willingly consign us forever to degradation and dependence?” “You say well, my Lord Marquis,” said the Grand Master; “and your words find an echo in my bosom—Yet must we be cautious; Philip of France is wise as well as valiant.” “True, and will be therefore the more easily diverted from an expedition, to which, in a moment of enthusiasm, or urged by his nobles, he rashly bound himself—He is jealous of King Richard, his natural enemy, and longs to return to prosecute plans of ambition nearer to Paris than Palestine—any fair pretence will serve him for withdrawing from a scene, in which he is aware he is wasting the force of his kingdom.” “And the Duke of Austria?” said the Templar. “Oh, touching the Duke,” returned Conrade, “his self-conceit and folly lead him to the same conclusions as do Philip’s policy and wisdom. He conceives himself, God help the while, ungratefully treated, because men’s mouths,—even those of his own minnesingers,*—are filled with the praises of King Richard, whom he fears and hates, and in whose harm he would rejoice, like those unbred dastardly curs, who, if the foremost of the pack suffers by the gripe of the wolf, are much more like to assail him from behind, than to come to his assistance.—But wherefore tell I this to thee, save to show that I am in sincerity in desiring that this league be broken up, and the country freed of these great monarchs with their hosts; and thou well knowest, and hast thyself seen, how all the princes of influence and power, one alone excepted, are eager to enter into treaty with the Soldan.” “I acknowledge it,” said the Templar; “he were blind that had not seen this in their last deliberations. But lift yet thy mask an inch higher, and tell me thy real reason for pressing upon the Council that northern Englishman, or Scot, or whatsoever you call yonder Knight of the Leopard, to carry their proposals for a treaty?” “There was a policy in it,” replied the Italian; “his character of native of Britain was sufficient to meet what Saladin required, who knew him to belong to the band of Richard, while his character of Scot, and certain other personal grudges which I wot of, rendered it most unlikely that our envoy should, on his return, hold any communication with the sick-bed of Richard, to whom his presence was ever unacceptable.” * The German minstrels were so termed.

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“Oh, too fine-spun policy,” said the Grand Master; “trust me, that Italian spiders’ webs will never bind this unshorn Sampson of the Isle—well, if you can do it with new cords and those of the toughest. See you not that the envoy whom you have selected so carefully, hath brought us, in this physician, the means of restoring the lion-hearted, bull-necked Englishman, to prosecute his crusading enterprize; and, so soon as he is able once more to rush on, which of the princes will dare hold back?—they must follow him for very shame, although they would march under the banners of Satan as soon.” “Be content,” said Conrade of Montserrat—“Ere this physician, if he work by anything short of miraculous agency, can accomplish Richard’s cure, it may be possible to put some open rupture betwixt the Frenchman, at least the Austrian, and his allies of England, so that the breach shall be irreconcilable; and Richard may arise from his bed, perhaps to command his own native troops, but never again, by his sole energy, to wield the force of the whole Crusade.” “Thou art a willing archer,” said the Templar; “but, Conrade of Montserrat, thy bow is over slack to carry an arrow to the mark.” He then stopped short, cast a suspicious glance to see that no one overheard him, and taking Conrade by the hand, pressed it strongly as he looked the Italian in the face, and repeated slowly,— “Richard arise from his bed, sayst thou?—Conrade, he must never arise!” The Marquis of Montserrat started—“What?—spoke you of Richard of England—of Coeur de Lion—the champion of Christendom?” His cheek turned pale, and his knees trembled as he spoke. The Templar looked at him, with his iron visage contorted into a smile of contempt. “Knowst thou what thou lookst like, Sir Conrade, at this moment? Not like the politic and valiant Marquis of Montserrat—not like him who would direct the Council of Princes, and determine the fate of empires—but like a novice, who has stumbled upon a conjuration in his master’s book of gramarye, has raised the devil when he least thought of it, and now stands terrified at the spirit which appears before him.” “I grant you,” said Conrade, recovering himself, “that—unless some other sure road could be discovered—thou hast hinted at that which leads most direct to our purpose. But, blessed Mary! we shall become the curse of all Europe, the malediction of every one, from the Pope on his throne to the very beggar at the church-gate, who, ragged and leprous and in the last extremity of human wretchedness,

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shall bless himself that he is neither Giles Amaury, nor Conrade of Montserrat.” “If thou takest it thus,” said the Grand Master, with the same composure which characterized him all through this remarkable dialogue, “let us hold there has nothing passed between us—that we have spoken in our sleep—have awakened, and the vision is gone.” “It never can depart,” answered Conrade. “Visions of ducal crowns and kingly diadems are, indeed, somewhat tenacious of their place in the imagination,” replied the Grand Master. “Well,” answered Conrade, “let me but first try to break peace between Austria and England.” They parted. Conrade remained standing still upon the spot, and watching the flowing white cloak of the Templar, as he stalked slowly away, and gradually disappeared amid the fast-sinking darkness of the oriental night. Proud, ambitious, unscrupulous, and politic, the Marquis of Montserrat was yet not cruel by nature. He was a voluptuary and an Epicurean, and, like many who profess this character, was averse, even upon selfish motives, from inflicting pain, or witnessing acts of cruelty; and he retained also a general sense of respect for his own reputation, which sometimes supplies the want of the better principle by which reputation is to be maintained. “I have,” he said, as his eyes still watched the point at which he had seen the last slight wave of the Templar’s mantle,—“I have, in truth, raised the devil with a vengeance. Who would have thought this stern ascetic Grand Master, whose whole fortune and misfortune is merged in that of his Order, would be willing to do more for its advancement, than I who labour for my own interest? To check this wild crusade was my motive, indeed, but I dared not think on the ready mode which this determined priest has dared to suggest—yet it is the surest—perhaps even the safest.” Such were the Marquis’s meditations, when his muttered soliloquy was broken by a voice from a little distance, which proclaimed with the emphatic tone of an herald,—“Remember the Holy Sepulchre!” The exhortation was echoed from post to post, for it was the duty of the sentinels to raise this cry from time to time upon their periodical watch, that the host of the crusaders might always have in their remembrance the purpose of their being in arms. But though Conrade was familiar with the custom, and had heard the warning voice on all former occasions as a matter of habit, yet it came on the present occasion so strangely in contact with his own train of thought, that it seemed a voice from Heaven warning him against the iniquity

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which his heart meditated. He looked around anxiously, as if, like the patriarch of old, though from very different circumstances, he was expecting some ram caught in a thicket—some substitution for the sacrifice, which his comrade proposed to offer, not to the Supreme Being, but to the Moloch of their own ambition. As he looked, the broad folds of the ensign of England, heavily distending itself to the failing night-breeze, caught his eye. It was displayed upon an artificial mound, nearly in the midst of the camp, which perhaps of old some Hebrew chief or champion had chosen as a memorial of his place of rest. If so, the name was now forgotten, and the crusaders had christened it Saint George’s Mount, because from that commanding height the banner of England was supereminently displayed, as if an emblem of sovereignty over the many distinguished, noble, and even royal ensigns, which floated in lower situations. A quick intellect like that of Conrade catches ideas from the glance of a moment. A single look on the standard seemed to dispel the uncertainty of mind which had affected him. He walked to his pavilion with the hasty and determined step of one who has adopted a plan which he is resolved to achieve, dismissed the almost princely train who waited to attend him, and, as he committed himself to his couch, muttered his amended resolution, that the milder means are to be tried before the more desperate are resorted to. “To-morrow,” he said, “I sit at the board of the Arch-Duke of Austria—we will see what can be done to advance our purpose, before prosecuting the dark suggestions of this Templar.”

Chapter Eleven One thing is certain in our Northern land, That gi’ to birth, to valour, wealth, or wit, Each their dominion to their possessor, Envy, that follows on such eminence, As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck’s trace, Shall pull them down each one. S  D L

L , Grand Duke of Austria, was the first possessor of that noble country to whom the princely rank belonged. He had been raised to the ducal sway in the German empire, on account of his near relationship to the Emperor, Henry the Stern, and held under his government the finest provinces which are watered by the Danube. His character has been stained in history, on account of one action of violence and perfidy, which arose out of these very transactions in the Holy Land; and yet the shame of having made Richard a

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prisoner, when he returned through his dominions, unattended and in disguise, was not one which flowed from Leopold’s natural disposition. He was rather a weak and a vain, than an ambitious or tyrannical prince. His mental powers resembled the qualities of his person. He was tall, strong, and handsome, with a complexion in which red and white were strongly contrasted, and had long flowing locks of fair hair. But there was an awkwardness in his gait, which seemed as if his size was not animated by energy sufficient to put in motion such a mass; and in the same manner, wearing the richest dresses, it always seemed as if they became him not. As a prince, he seemed too little familiar with his own dignity, and being often at a loss how to assert his authority when the occasion demanded it, he frequently thought himself obliged to recover, by acts and expressions of illtimed violence, the ground which might have been easily and gracefully maintained by a little more presence of mind in the beginning of the controversy. Not only were these deficiencies visible to others, but the ArchDuke himself could not but sometimes entertain a painful consciousness that he was not altogether fit to maintain and assert the high rank which he had acquired; and to this was joined the strong, and sometimes the just suspicion, that others held him lightly accordingly. When he first joined the crusade, with a most princely attendance, he had desired much to enjoy the friendship and intimacy of Richard, and had made such advances towards cultivating his regard, as the King of England ought, in policy, to have received and answered. But the Arch-Duke, though not deficient in bravery, was so infinitely inferior to Coeur de Lion in that ardour of mind which wooed danger as a bride, that the King very soon held him in a degree of contempt. Richard also, as a Norman Prince, a people with whom temperance was habitual, despised the inclination of the German for the pleasures of the table, and particularly his liberal indulgence in the use of wine. For these, and other personal reasons, the King of England very soon looked upon the Austrian Prince with feelings of contempt, which he was at no pains to conceal or modify, and which, therefore, were speedily remarked, and returned with deep hatred by the suspicious Leopold. The discord between them was fanned by the secret and politic arts of Philip of France, one of the most sagacious monarchs of the time, who, dreading the fiery and overbearing character of Richard, considering him as his natural rival, and feeling offended moreover, at the dictatorial manner in which he, a vassal of France for his continental domains, conducted himself towards his liege, endeavoured to strengthen his own party, and weaken that of Richard, by uniting the crusading princes of

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inferior degree, in resistance to what he termed the usurping authority of the King of England. Such was the state of politics and opinions entertained by the Arch-Duke of Austria, when Conrade of Montserrat resolved upon employing his jealousy of England as the means of dissolving, or loosening at least, the league of the crusaders. The time which he chose for his visit was noon, and the pretence, to present the Arch-Duke with some choice Cyprus wine which had lately fallen into his hands, and discuss its comparative merits with those of Hungary and of the Rhine. An intimation of his purpose was of course answered by a courteous invitation to partake of the Arch-ducal meal, and every effort was used to render it fitting the splendour of a sovereign prince. Yet, the refined taste of the Italian saw more cumbrous profusion, than elegance or splendour, in the display of provisions under which the board groaned. The Germans, though still possessing the martial and frank character of their ancestors, who subdued the Roman empire, had retained withal no slight tinge of their barbarism. The practices and principles of chivalry were not carried to such a nice pitch amongst them, as amongst the French and English knights, nor were they observers of the prescribed rules of society, which were among these nations supposed to express the height of civilization. Sitting at the table of the Arch-Duke, Conrade was at once stunned and amused, with the clang of Teutonic sounds assaulting his ears on all sides, notwithstanding the solemnity of a princely banquet. Their dress seemed equally fantastic to him, many of the Austrian nobles retaining their long beards, and almost all of them wearing short jerkins of various colours, cut and flourished and fringed in a manner not common in Western Europe. Numbers of dependents, old and young, attended in the pavilion, mingled at times in the conversation, received from their masters the relics of the entertainment, and devoured them as they stood behind the back of the company. Jesters, dwarfs, and minstrels, were there in unusual numbers, and more noisy and intrusive than they were permitted to be in better regulated society. As they were allowed to share freely in the wine, which flowed round in large quantities, their licensed tumult was the more excessive. All this while, and in the midst of a clamour and confusion, which better would have become a German tavern during a fair than the tent of a sovereign prince, the Arch-Duke was waited upon with a minuteness of form and observance, which showed how anxious he was to maintain rigidly the style and character to which his elevation had entitled him. He was served on the knee, and only by pages of

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noble blood, fed upon plate of silver, and drank his Tokay and Rhenish wines from a cup of gold. His ducal mantle was splendidly adorned with ermine, his coronet might have equalled in value a royal crown, and his feet, cased in velvet shoes, (the length of which, peaks included, might be two feet,) rested upon a footstool of solid silver. But it served partly to intimate the character of the man, that, although desirous to show attention to the Marquis of Montserrat, whom he had courteously placed at his right hand, he gave much more of his attention to his spruch-sprecher, that is, his man of conversation, or sayer of sayings, who stood behind the Duke’s right shoulder. This personage was well attired, in a cloak and doublet of black velvet, the last of which was decorated with various silver and gold coins, stitched upon it, in memory of the munificent princes who had conferred them, and bearing a short staff, to which also bunches of silver coins were attached by rings, which he jingled by way of attracting attention, when he was about to say anything which he judged worthy of it. This person’s capacity in the household of the Arch-Duke, was somewhat betwixt that of a minstrel and a counsellor —he was by turns a flatterer, a poet, and an orator, and those who desired to be well with the Duke, generally studied to gain the good-will of the spruch-sprecher. Lest too much of this officer’s wisdom should become tiresome, the Duke’s other shoulder was occupied by his hoff-narr, or court jester, called Jonas Schwanker, who made almost as much noise with his fool’s cap, bells, and bauble, as did the orator, or man of talk, with his jingling batton. These two personages threw out grave and comic nonsense alternately, while their master, laughing or applauding them himself, yet carefully watched the countenance of his noble guest, to discover what impressions so accomplished a cavalier received from this display of Austrian eloquence and wit. It is hard to say whether the man of wisdom or the man of folly contributed most to the amusement of the party, or stood highest in the estimation of their princely master; but the sallies of both seemed excellently well received. Sometimes they became rivals for the conversation, and clanged their flappers in emulation of each other, with a most alarming contention. But, in general, they seemed on such good terms, and so accustomed to support each other’s play, that the spruch-sprecher often condescended to follow up the jester’s witticisms with an explanation, to render them more obvious to the capacity of the audience; so that his wisdom became a sort of commentary on the buffoon’s folly. And sometimes, in requital, the hoff-narr, with a

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pithy jest, wound up the conclusion of the orator’s tedious harangue. Whatever his real sentiments might be, Conrade took especial care that his countenance should express nothing but satisfaction with what he heard, and smiled or applauded as zealously, to all appearance, as the Arch-Duke himself, at the solemn folly of the spruch-sprecher, and the gibbering wit of the fool. In fact, he watched carefully until the one or other should introduce some topic, favourable to the purpose which was uppermost in his mind. It was not long ere the King of England was brought on the carpet by the jester, who had been accustomed to consider Dickon of the Broom as a subject of mirth, acceptable and inexhaustible. The orator, indeed, was silent, and it was only when applied to by Conrade, that he observed, “The genista, or broom plant, was an emblem of humility; and it would be well when those who wore it would remember the meaning.” The allusion to the illustrious name of Plantagenet was thus rendered sufficiently manifest, and Jonas Schwanker observed, that they who humbled themselves had been exalted with a vengeance. “Honour unto whom honour is due,” answered the Marquis of Montserrat; “we have all had some part in these marches and battles, and methinks other princes might share a little in the renown which Richard of England engrosses amongst minstrels and minne-singers. Has no one of the Joyeuse Science a song in praise of the royal Arch-Duke of Austria, our princely entertainer?” Three minstrels emulously stepped forward with voice and harp. Two were silenced with difficulty by the spruch-sprecher, who seemed to act as master of the revels, and a hearing was at length procured for the poet preferred, who sung, in high German, stanzas which may be thus translated:— What brave chief shall head the forces, Where the red-cross legions gather? Best of horsemen, best of horses, Highest head and fairest feather.

Here the orator, jingling his staff, interrupted the bard to intimate to the party, what they might not have inferred from the description, that their royal host was the party indicated, and a full crowned goblet went round to the acclamation—Hoch lebe der Herzog Leopold. Another stanza followed. Ask not Austria why, midst princes, Still her banner rises highest; Ask as well the strong-wing’d eagle, Why to Heaven he soars the nighest.

“The eagle,” said the expounder of dark sayings, “is the cognizance of our noble lord the Arch-Duke—of his royal Grace, I would say—

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and the eagle flies the highest and nearest to the sun of all the feathered creation.” “The lion hath taken a spring above the eagle,” said Conrade, carelessly. The Arch-Duke reddened, and fixed his eyes on the speaker, while the spruch-sprecher answered, after a minute’s consideration, “The Lord Marquis will pardon me—a lion cannot fly above an eagle, because no lion hath got wings.” “Except the lion of Saint Mark,” said the jester. “That is the Venetian’s banner,” said the Duke; “but assuredly, that amphibious race, half nobles, half merchants, will not dare to place their rank in comparison with ours.” “Nay, it was not of the Venetian lion that I spoke,” said the Marquis of Montserrat; “but of the three lions passant of England —formerly, it is said, they were leopards, but now they are become lions at all points, and must take precedence of beast, fish, or fowl, or woe worth the gain-stander.” “Mean you seriously, my lord?” said the Austrian, now considerably flushed with wine; “think you that Richard of England asserts any pre-eminence over the free sovereigns who have been his voluntary allies in this crusade?” “I know not but from circumstance,” answered Conrade; “yonder hangs his banner alone in the midst of our camp, as if he were King and generalissimo of our whole Christian army.” “And do you endure this so patiently, and speak of it so coldly?” said the Arch-Duke. “Nay, my lord,” answered Conrade, “it cannot concern the poor Marquis of Montserrat to contend against an injury, patiently submitted to by such potent princes as Philip of France and Leopold of Austria. What dishonour you are pleased to submit to, cannot be a disgrace to me.” Leopold closed his fist, and struck on the table with violence. “I have told Philip of this,” he said; “I have often told him that it was our duty to protect the inferior princes against the usurpation of this islander—but he answers me ever with cold respects of their relations together as suzerain and vassal, and that it were impolitic in him to make an open breach at this time and period.” “The world knows that Philip is wise,” said Conrade, “and will judge his submission to be policy.—Yours, my lord, you can yourself alone account for; but I doubt not you have deep reasons for submitting to English domination.” “I submit!” said Leopold, indignantly—“I, the Arch-Duke of Austria, so important and vital a limb of the Holy Roman empire—I

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submit myself to this King of half an island—this grandson of a Norman bastard!—No, by Heaven! The camp, and all Christendom, shall see that I know how to right myself, and whether I yield ground one inch to the English ban-dog.—Up, my lieges and merry-men, up and follow me—we will—and that without losing one instant— place the eagle of Austria, where she shall float as high as ever floated the cognizance of king or kaisar.” With that he started from his seat, and, amidst the tumultuous cheering of his guests and followers, made for the door of the pavilion, and seized his own banner, which stood pitched before it. “Nay, nay, my lord,” said Conrade, affecting to interfere, “it will blemish your wisdom to make an affray in the camp at this hour, and perhaps it is better to submit to the usurpation of England a little longer than to——” “Not an hour—not a moment longer,” vociferated the Duke; and, with the banner in his hand, and followed by his shouting guests and attendants, marched hastily to the central mound, from which the banner of England floated, and laid his hand on the standard-spear, as if to pluck it from the ground. “My master, my dear master!” said Jonas Schwanker, throwing his arms about the Duke—“take heed—lions have teeth——” “And eagles have claws,” said the Duke, not relinquishing his hold on the banner-staff, yet hesitating to pull it from the ground. The speaker of sentences, notwithstanding such was his occupation, had nevertheless some intervals of sound sense. He clashed his staff loudly, and Leopold, as if by habit, turned his head towards his man of counsel. “The eagle is king among the fowls of the air,” said the spruchsprecher, “as is the lion among the beasts of the field—each has his dominion, separated as wide as England from Germany—do thou, noble eagle, no dishonour to the princely lion, but let your banners remain floating in peace side by side.” Leopold withdrew his hand from the banner-spear, and looked round for Conrade of Montserrat, but he saw him not; for the Marquis, so soon as ever he saw the mischief afoot, had withdrawn himself from the crowd, taking care, in the first place, to express before several neutral persons his regret that the Arch-Duke should have chosen the hours after dinner to avenge any wrong of which he might think he had a right to complain. Not seeing his guest, to whom he wished more particularly to have addressed himself, the Arch-Duke said aloud, that having no wish to breed dissension in the army of the Cross, he did but vindicate his own privileges and right to stand upon an equality with the King of England, without

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desiring, as he might have done, to advance his banner, which he derived from Emperors, his progenitors, above that of a mere descendant of the Count of Anjou; and, in the meantime, he commanded a cask of wine to be brought hither and pierced, for regaling the bye-standers, who, with tuck of drum and sound of music, quaffed many a carouse round the Austrian standard. This disorderly scene was not acted without a degree of noise, which alarmed the whole camp. The critical hour had arrived, at which the physician, according to the rules of his art, had predicted that his royal patient might be awakened with safety, and the sponge had been applied for that purpose; and the leech had not made many observations ere he assured the Baron of Gilsland that the fever had entirely left his sovereign, and that such was the happy strength of his constitution, it would not be even necessary, as in most cases, to give a second dose of the powerful medicine. Richard himself seemed to be of the same opinion, for, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he demanded of De Vaux what present sum of money was in the royal coffers. The baron could not justly inform him of the amount. “It matters not,” said Richard; “be it greater or smaller, bestow it all on this learned leech, who hath, I trust, given me back again to the service of the crusade—If it be less than a thousand byzants, let him have jewels to make it up.” “I sell not the wisdom with which Allah has endowed me,” answered the Arabian physician; “and be it known to you, great Prince, that the divine medicine, of which you have partaken, would lose its effects in my unworthy hands, did I exchange it either for gold or diamonds.” “He refuseth a gratuity!” said De Vaux to himself. “This is more extraordinary than his being an hundred years old.” “Thomas de Vaux,” said Richard, “thou knowest no courage but what belongs to the sword, no bounty and virtue but what is used in chivalry—I tell thee that this Moor, in his independence, might set an example to them who account themselves the flower of knighthood.” “It is reward enough for me,” said the Moor, folding his arms on his bosom, and maintaining an attitude at once respectful and dignified, “that so great a King as the Melec Ric should thus speak of his servant.—But now, let me pray you again to compose yourself on your couch; for though I think there needs no farther repetition of the divine draught, yet injury might ensue from any too early exertion, ere your strength be entirely restored.” “I must obey thee, Hakim,” said the King; “yet believe me, my

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bosom feels so free from the wasting fire, which for so many days hath scorched it, that I care not how soon I expose it to a brave man’s lance.—But hark! what mean these shouts, and that distant music, in the camp? Go, Thomas de Vaux, and make inquiry.” “It is the Arch-Duke Leopold,” said De Vaux, returning after a minute’s absence, “who makes with his pot-companions some procession through the camp.” “The drunken fool!” exclaimed King Richard, “can he not keep his brutal inebriety within the veil of his pavilion, that he must needs show his shame to all Christendom?—What say you, Sir Marquis?” he added, addressing himself to Conrade of Montserrat, who at that moment entered the tent. “This, much honoured Prince,” answered the Marquis, “that I delight to see your Majesty so well, and so far recovered—and that is a long speech for any one to make who has partaken of the Duke of Austria’s hospitality.” “What! you have been dining with the Teutonic wine-skin,” said the monarch; “and what frolic has he found out to cause all this disturbance? Truly, Sir Conrade, I have still held you so good a reveller, that I wonder at your quitting the game.” De Vaux, who was got a little behind the King, now exerted himself, by look and sign, to make the Marquis understand that he should say nothing to Richard of what was passing without. But Conrade understood not, or heeded not, the prohibition. “What the Arch-Duke does,” he said, “is of little consequence to any one, least of all to himself, since he probably knows not what he is acting—Yet, to say truth, it is a gambol I should not like to share in, since he is pulling down the banner of England from Saint George’s Mount in the centre of the camp yonder, and displaying his own in its stead.” “W    sayst thou?” said the King, in a tone which might have waked the dead. “Nay,” said the Marquis, “let it not chafe your Highness, that a fool should act according to his folly——” “Speak not to me,” said Richard, springing from his couch, and casting on his clothes with a dispatch which seemed marvellous— “speak not to me, Lord Marquis!—De Multon, I command thee speak not a word to me—he that breathes but a syllable, is no friend to Richard Plantagenet.—Hakim, be silent, I charge thee!” All this while the King was hastily clothing himself, and, with the last word, snatched his sword from the pillar of the tent, and without any other weapon, or calling any attendance, he rushed out of the tent. Conrade, holding up his hands, as if in astonishment, seemed

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willing to enter into conversation with De Vaux, but Sir Thomas pushed rudely past him, and calling to one of the royal equerries, said hastily,—“Fly to Lord Salisbury’s quarters, and let him get his men together, and follow me instantly to Saint George’s Mount. Tell him the King’s fever has left his blood, and settled in his brain.” Imperfectly heard, and still more imperfectly comprehended, by the startled attendant whom De Vaux addressed thus hastily, the equerry and his fellow-servants of the royal chamber rushed hastily into the tents of the neighbouring nobility, and quickly spread an alarm, as general as the cause seemed vague, through the whole British forces. The English soldiers, waked in alarm from that noonday rest which the heat of the climate had taught them to enjoy as a luxury, hastily asked each other the cause of the tumult, and, without waiting an answer, supplied, by the force of their own fancy, the want of information. Some said the Saracens were in the camp, some that the King’s life was attempted, some that he had died of the fever the preceding night, many that he was assassinated by the Duke of Austria. Their nobles and officers, at an equal loss with the common men to ascertain the real cause of the disorder, laboured only to get their followers under arms and under authority, lest their rashness occasioned some great misfortune to the crusading army. The English trumpets sounded long, shrill, and continuously. The alarm-cry of “Bows and bills—bows and bills,” was heard from quarter to quarter, again and again shouted, and again and again answered by the presence of the ready warriors, and their national invocation, “Saint George for merry England.” The alarm went through the nearest quarter of the camp, and men of all the various nations assembled, where, perhaps, every people in Christendom had their representatives, flew to arms, and drew together under circumstances of general confusion, of which they knew neither the cause nor the object. It was, however, lucky, amid a scene so threatening, that the Earl of Salisbury, while he hurried after De Vaux’s summons, with a few only of the readiest English men-at-arms, directed the rest of the English host to be drawn up and kept under arms, to advance to Richard’s succour if necessity should require, but in fit array, and under due command, and not with the tumultuary haste which their own alarm, and zeal for the King’s safety, might have dictated. In the meanwhile, without regarding for one instant the shouts, the cries, the tumult, which began to thicken around him, Richard, with his dress in the last disorder, and his sheathed blade under his arm, pursued his way with the utmost speed, followed only by De

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Vaux, and one or two household servants, to Saint George’s Mount. He outsped even the alarm which his impetuosity had excited, and passed the quarter of his own gallant troops of Normandy, Poitou, Gascony, and Anjou, before the disturbance had reached them, although the noise accompanying the German revel had induced many of the soldiery to get on foot to listen. The handful of Scots were also quartered in the vicinity, nor had they been disturbed by the uproar. But the King’s person, and his haste, were both remarked by the Knight of the Leopard, who, aware that danger must be afoot, and hastening to share in it, snatched his shield and sword, and united himself to De Vaux, who with some difficulty kept pace with his impatient and fiery master. De Vaux answered a look of curiosity, which the Scottish knight directed towards him, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, and they continued, side by side, to pursue Richard’s steps. The King was soon at the foot of Saint George’s Mount, the sides as well as platform of which were now surrounded and crowded, partly by those belonging to the Duke of Austria’s retinue, who were celebrating, with shouts of jubilee, the act which they considered as an assertion of national honour; partly by bystanders of different nations, whom dislike to the English, or mere curiosity, had assembled together, to witness the end of these extraordinary proceedings. Through this disorderly troop Richard burst his way, like a goodly ship under full sail, which cleaves her forcible passage through the rolling billows, and heeds not that they unite after her passage, and roar upon her wake. On the top of the eminence was a small level space, on which were pitched the rival banners, surrounded still by the Arch-Duke’s friends and retinue. In the midst of the circle was Leopold himself, still contemplating with self-satisfaction the deed he had done, and still listening to the shouts of applause which his partizans bestowed with no sparing breath. While he was in this state of self-gratulation, Richard burst into the circle, attended, indeed, only by two men, but in his own headlong energies an irresistible host. “Who has dared,” he said, laying his hands upon the Austrian standard, and speaking in a voice like the sound which precedes an earthquake; “who has dared to place this paltry rag beside the banner of England?” The Arch-Duke wanted not personal courage, and it was impossible he could hear this question without reply. Yet, so much was he troubled and surprised by the unexpected arrival of Richard, and affected by the general awe inspired by his ardent and unyielding character, that the demand was twice repeated, in a tone which

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seemed to challenge heaven and earth, ere the Arch-Duke replied, with such firmness as he could command, “It was I, Leopold of Austria.” “Then shall Leopold of Austria,” replied Richard, “presently see the rate at which his banner and his pretensions are held by Richard of England.” So saying, he pulled up the standard-spear, splintered it to pieces, threw the banner itself on the ground, and placed his foot upon it. “Thus,” said he, “I trample on the pride of Austria—Is there a knight among your Teutonic chivalry, dare impeach my deed?” There was a momentary silence; but there are no braver men than the Germans. “I,” and “I,” and “I,” was heard from several knights of the Duke’s suite; and he himself added his voice to those which accepted the King of England’s defiance. “Why do we dally thus?” said the Earl Wallenrode, a gigantic warrior from the frontiers of Hungary: “Brethren, and noble gentlemen, this man’s foot is on the honour of your country—Let us rescue it from violation, and down with the pride of England!” So saying, he drew his sword, and struck at the King a blow which might have proved fatal, had not the Scot intercepted and caught it upon his shield. “I have sworn,” said King Richard—and his voice was heard above all the tumult, which now waxed wild and loud—“never to strike one whose shoulder bears the cross; therefore live, Wallenrode —but live to remember Richard of England.” As he spoke, he grasped the tall Hungarian round the waist, and, unmatched in wrestling, as in other military exercises, hurled him backwards with such violence that the mass seemed sent as if from a military engine, not only through the ring of spectators who witnessed the extraordinary scene, but over the edge of the mound itself, down the steep side of which Wallenrode rolled headlong, until, pitching at length upon his shoulder, he dislocated the bone, and lay like one dead. This almost supernatural display of strength did not encourage either the Duke or any of his followers, to renew a personal contest so inauspiciously commenced. Those who stood farthest back did, indeed, clash their swords, and cry out, “Cut the island mastiff to pieces!” but those who were nearer, veiled, perhaps, their personal fears under an affected regard for order, and cried, for the most part, “Peace! peace! the peace of the Cross—the peace of Holy Church, and our Father the Pope!” These various cries of the assailants, contradicting each other, showed their irresolution; while Richard, his foot still on the

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arch-ducal banner, glared round him, with an eye that seemed to seek an enemy, and from which the angry nobles shrunk appalled, as from the gleam of a lion’s eye. De Vaux and the Knight of the Leopard kept their places beside him; and though the swords which they held were still sheathed, it was plain that they were prompt to defend Richard’s person to the very last, and their size and apparent strength plainly showed the defence would be a desperate one. Salisbury and his attendants were also now drawing near, with bills and partizans brandished, and bows already bended. At this moment, King Philip of France, attended by one or two of his nobles, came on the platform to inquire the cause of the disturbance, and made gestures of surprise at finding the King of England confronting their common ally the Duke of Austria, in such a menacing and insulting posture. Richard himself blushed at being discovered by Philip, whose sagacity he respected as much as he disliked his person, in an attitude neither becoming his character as a monarch, nor as a crusader; and it was observed that he withdrew his foot, as if accidentally, from the dishonoured banner, and exchanged his look of violent emotion for one of affected composure and indifference. Leopold also struggled to attain some degree of calmness, mortified as he was by having been seen passively submitting to the insults of the fiery King of England. Possessed of many of those royal qualities for which he was termed by his subjects the August, Philip might be termed the Ulysses, as Richard was indisputably the Achilles, of the crusade. The King of France was sagacious, wise, deliberate in council, steady and calm in action, seeing clearly, and steadily pursuing, the measures most for the interest of his kingdom—dignified and royal in his deportment, brave in person, but a politician rather than a warrior. The crusade would have been no choice of his own, but the spirit was contagious, and the expedition was enforced upon him by the Church, and by the unanimous wish of his nobility. In any other situation, or in a milder age, his character might have stood higher than that of the adventurous Coeur de Lion. But in the crusade, itself an undertaking wholly irrational, sound reason was the quality, of all others, least estimated, and the chivalric valour which both the age and the enterprize demanded, was considered as debased, if mingled with the least touch of discretion. So that the merit of Philip, compared with that of his haughty rival, showed like the clear but minute flame of a lamp, placed near the glare of a huge blazing torch, which, not possessing half the utility, makes ten times more impression on the eye. Philip felt his inferiority in public opinion, with the pain natural to an high-spirited prince; and it cannot be

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wondered at if he took such opportunities as offered, for placing his own character in more advantageous contrast with that of his rival. The present seemed one of those occasions, in which prudence and calmness might reasonably expect to triumph over obstinacy and impetuous violence. “What means this unseemly broil betwixt the sworn brethren of the Cross—the royal Majesty of England and the princely Duke Leopold? How is it possible that those who are the chiefs and pillars of this holy expedition——” “A truce with thy remonstrance, France,” said Richard, enraged inwardly at finding himself placed on a sort of equality with Leopold, yet not knowing how to resent it,—“this duke, or prince, or pillar, if you will, hath been insolent, and I have chastised him—that is all— Here is a coil, because of spurning a hound.” “Majesty of France,” said the Duke, “I appeal to you and every sovereign prince against the foul indignity which I have sustained —this King of England hath pulled down my banner—torn and trampled on it.” “Because he had the audacity to plant it beside mine,” said Richard. “My rank as thine equal entitled me,” replied the Duke, emboldened by the presence of Philip. “Assert such equality for thy person,” said King Richard, “and, by Saint George, I will treat thy person as I did thy broidered kerchief there, fit but for the meanest use to which kerchief may be put.” “Nay, but patience, brother of England,” said Philip, “and I will presently show Austria that he is wrong in this matter.—Do not think, noble Duke,” he continued, “that in permitting the standard of England to occupy the highest point in our camp, we, the independent sovereigns of the crusade, acknowledge any inferiority to the royal Richard. It were inconsistent to think so; since even the Oriflamme itself—the great banner of France, to which the royal Richard himself, in respect of his French possessions, is but a vassal, holds for the present an inferior place to the Lions of England. But as sworn brethren of the Cross, military pilgrims, who, laying aside the pomp and pride of this world, are hewing with our swords the way to the Holy Sepulchre, I myself, and the other princes, have renounced to King Richard, from respect to his high renown and great feats of arms, that precedence, which elsewhere, and upon other motives, would not have been yielded.—I am satisfied, that when your royal grace shall have considered this, you will express sorrow for having placed your banner on this spot, and that the royal

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Majesty of England will then give satisfaction for the insult he has offered.” The spruch-sprecher and the jester had both retired to a safe distance when matters seemed coming to blows, but returned when words, their own commodity, seemed again about to become the order of the day. The man of proverbs was so delighted with Philip’s politic speech, that he clashed his baton at the conclusion, by way of emphasis, and forgot the presence in which he was so far as to say aloud, that he himself had never said a wiser thing in his life. “It may be so,” whispered Jonas Schwanker, “but we shall be whipped if you speak so loud.” The Duke answered sullenly, that he would refer his quarrel to the General Council of the Crusade—a motion which Philip highly applauded, as qualified to take away a scandal most harmful to Christendom. Richard, retaining the same careless attitude, listened to Philip until his oratory seemed exhausted, and then said aloud, “I am drowsy—this fever hangs about me still. Brother of France, thou art acquainted with my humour, and that I have at all times but few words to spare—know, therefore, at once, I will submit a matter touching the honour of England, neither to Prince, Pope, nor Council. There stands my banner—whatsoever pennon shall be reared within three butts’ length of it—ay, were it the Oriflamme, of which you were, I think, but now speaking, shall be treated as that dishonoured rag; nor will I yield other satisfaction than that which these poor limbs can render in the lists to any bold challenger—ay, were it against five champions instead of one.” “Now,” said the jester, whispering his companion, “that is as complete a piece of folly, as if I myself had said it—but still, I think, there may be in this matter a greater fool than Richard yet.” “And who may that be?” asked the man of wisdom. “Philip,” said the jester, “or our own royal Duke, should either accept the challenge—But oh, most sage spruch-sprecher, what excellent kings would thou and I have made, since those on whose heads crowns have fallen, can play the proverb-monger and the fool as completely as ourselves!” While these worthies plied their offices apart, Philip answered calmly to the almost injurious defiance of Richard. “I came not hither to awaken fresh quarrels, contrary to the oath we have sworn, and the holy cause in which we have engaged. I part from my brother of England as brothers should part, and the only strife between the lions of England and the lilies of France shall be that

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which shall be carried deepest into the ranks of the infidels.” “It is a bargain, my royal brother,” said Richard, stretching out his hand with all the frankness which belonged to his rash but generous disposition; “and soon may we have the opportunity to try this gallant and fraternal wager.” “Let this noble Duke also partake in the friendship of this happy moment,” said Philip; and the Duke approached half-sullenly, halfwilling to enter into some accommodation. “I think not of fools, nor of their folly,” said Richard, carelessly, and the Arch-Duke, turning his back on him, withdrew from the ground. Richard looked after him as he retired. “There is a sort of glow-worm courage,” he said, “that shows only by night. I must not leave the banner unguarded in darkness— by daylight the look of the lions will alone defend it. There, Thomas of Gilsland, I give thee the charge of the standard—watch over the honour of England.” “Her safety is yet more dear to me,” said De Vaux, “and the life of Richard is the safety of England—I must have your Highness back to your tent, and that without further tarriance.” “Thou art a rough and peremptory nurse, De Vaux,” said the King, smiling; and then added, addressing Sir Kenneth, “Valiant Scot, I owe thee a boon, and I will pay it richly. There stands the banner of England. Watch it as a novice does his armour on the night before he is dubbed. Stir not from it three spears’ length, and defend it with thy body against injury or insult. Sound thy bugle, if thou art assailed by more than three at once. Doest thou undertake the charge?” “Willingly,” said Kenneth; “and will discharge it upon penalty of my head—I will but arm me, and return hither instantly.” The Kings of France and England then took formal leave of each other, hiding, under an appearance of courtesy, the grounds of complaint which either had against the other—Richard against Philip, for what he deemed an officious interference betwixt him and Austria, and Philip against Coeur de Lion, for the disrespectful manner in which his mediation had been received. Those whom this disturbance had assembled, now drew off in different directions, leaving the contested mount in the same solitude which had subsisted till interrupted by the Austrian bravado. Men judged of the events of the day according to their partialities; and while the English charged the Austrian with having afforded the first ground of quarrel, those of other nations concurred in casting the blame upon the insular haughtiness and assuming character of Richard.

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“Thou seest,” said the Marquis of Montserrat to the Grand Master of the Templars, “that subtle courses are more effective than violence. I have unloosed the bonds which held together this bunch of sceptres and lances—thou wilt see them shortly fall asunder.” “I would have called thy plan a good one,” said the Templar, “had there been but one man of courage among yonder cold-blooded Austrians, to sever the bonds of which you speak, with his sword—a knot that is unloosed may be again fastened, but not so the cord which has been cut to pieces.”

Chapter Twelve ’Tis woman that seduces all mankind. G

I         of chivalry, a dangerous post or a perilous adventure was a reward frequently assigned to military bravery as a compensation for its former trials;—just as in ascending a precipice, the surmounting one crag only lifts the climber to points yet more dangerous. It was midnight, and the moon rode clear and high in heaven, when Kenneth of Scotland stood upon his watch on Saint George’s Mount, beside the Banner of England, a solitary sentinel, to protect the emblem of that nation against the insults which might be meditated among the thousands whom Richard’s pride had made his enemies. High thoughts rolled, one after each other, upon the mind of the warrior. It seemed to him as if he had gained some favour in the eyes of the chivalrous monarch, who, till now, had not seemed to distinguish him among the crowds of brave men whom his renown had assembled under his banner, and Kenneth little recked that the display of royal regard consisted in placing him upon a post so perilous. The devotion of his ambitious and high-placed affection, inflamed his military enthusiasm. Hopeless as that attachment was, in almost any conceivable circumstances, those which had lately occurred had, in some degree, diminished the distance between Edith and himself. He upon whom Richard had conferred the distinction of guarding his banner, was no longer an adventurer of slight note, but placed within the regard of a princess, although he was as far as ever from her level. An unknown and obscure fate could not now be his—If he was surprised and slain on the post which had been assigned him, his death—and he resolved it should be glorious—should deserve the praises as well as call down the

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vengeance of Coeur de Lion, and be followed by the regrets and even the tears of the high-born beauties of the English Court. He had now no longer reason to fear that he should die as a fool dieth. Sir Kenneth had full leisure to enjoy these and similar highsouled thoughts, fostered by that wild spirit of chivalry, which, amid its most extravagant and fantastic flights, was still pure from all selfish alloy—generous, devoted, and perhaps only thus far censurable, that it proposed objects and courses of action inconsistent with the frailties and imperfections of man. All nature around him slept in calm moonshine, or in deep shadow. The long rows of tents and pavilions, glimmering or darkening as they lay in the moonlight or the shade, were still and silent as the streets of a deserted city. Beside the banner-staff, lay the large staghound already mentioned, the sole companion of Kenneth’s watch, on whose vigilance he trusted for early warning of the approach of any hostile footstep. The noble animal seemed to understand the purpose of their watch, for he looked from time to time at the rich folds of the heavy pennon, and, when the cry of the sentinels came from the distant lines and defences of the camp, he answered them with one deep and unreiterated bark, as if to affirm that he too was vigilant in his duty. From time to time, also, he lowered his lofty head, and wagged his tail, as his master passed and repassed him in the short turns which he took upon his post; or, when the knight stood silent and abstracted, leaning on his lance and looking up towards Heaven, his faithful attendant ventured sometimes, in the phrase of romance, “to disturb his thoughts,” and awaken him from his reverie, by thrusting his large rough snout into the knight’s gauntletted hand, to solicit a transitory caress.—On a sudden he bayed furiously, seemed about to dash forward where the shadow lay the darkest, yet waited, as if in the slips, till he should know the pleasure of his master. “Who goes there?” said Kenneth, aware that there was something creeping forwards on the shadowy side of the Mount. “In the name of Merlin and Maugis,” answered a hoarse disagreeable voice, “tie up your fiend—your four-footed demon there, or I come not at you.” “And who art thou that would approach my post?” said Sir Kenneth, bending his eyes as keenly as he could on some object, which he could just observe at the bottom of the ascent, without being able to distinguish its form. “Beware—I am here for death and life.” “Take up the long-fanged Sathanas,” said the voice, “or I will conjure him with a bolt from my arblast.” At the same time he heard the sound of a spring or check, as when a cross-bow is bent.

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“Unbend thy arblast, and come into the moonlight,” said Kenneth, “or, by Saint Andrew, I will pin thee to the earth, be what or whom thou wilt.” As he spoke, he poised his long lance by the middle, and, fixing his eye upon the object which seemed to move, he brandished the weapon as if meditating to cast it from his hand—an use of the weapon sometimes, though rarely, resorted to, when a missile was necessary. But Kenneth was ashamed of his purpose, and grounded his weapon, when there stepped from the shadow into the moonlight, like an actor entering upon the stage, a stunted decrepid creature, whom, by his fantastic dress and deformity, he recognized even at some distance for the male of the two dwarfs whom he had seen in the chapel at Engaddi. Recollecting, at the same moment, the other and far different visions of that extraordinary night, he gave his dog a signal, which he instantly understood, and, returning to the standard, laid himself down beside it with a stifled growl. The little distorted miniature of humanity, assured of his safety from an enemy so formidable, came panting up the ascent, which the shortness of his legs rendered laborious, and when he arrived on the platform at the top, shifted to his left hand the little cross-bow, which was just such a toy as children at that period were permitted to shoot small birds with, and, assuming an attitude of great dignity, gracefully extended his right hand to Sir Kenneth, in an attitude as if he expected he should salute it. But such a result not following, he demanded, in a sharp and eager tone of voice, “Soldier, wherefore renderst thou not to Nectanabus the homage due to his dignity?— Or is it possible that thou canst have forgotten him?” “Great Nectanabus,” answered the knight, willing to soothe the dwarf’s humour, “that were difficult for any one who has ever looked upon thee—pardon me, however, that being a soldier upon my post, with my lance in my hand, I may not give to one of thy puissance the advantage of coming within my guard, or of mastering my weapon. Suffice it, that I reverence thy dignity, and submit myself to thee as humbly as a man-at-arms in my place may.” “It shall suffice,” said Nectanabus, “so that you presently attend me to the presence of those who have sent me hither to summon you.” “Great sir,” replied the knight, “neither in this can I gratify thee, for my orders are to abide by this banner till day-break—so I pray you to hold me excused in that matter also.” So saying, he resumed his walk upon the platform. But the dwarf did not suffer him so easily to escape from his importunity. “Look you,” he said, placing himself before Kenneth, so as to

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intercept his way, “either obey me, Sir Knight, as in duty bound, or I will lay the command upon thee, in the name of one whose beauty could call down the genii from their sphere, and whose grandeur could command the immortal race when they had descended.” A wild and improbable conjecture arose in Kenneth’s mind, but he repelled it—it was impossible, he thought, that the lady of his love should have sent him such a message by such a messenger. Yet his voice trembled as he said, “Go to, Nectanabus. Tell me at once, and as a true man, whether this sublime lady, of whom thou speakest, be other than the houri with whose assistance I beheld thee sweeping the chapel at Engaddi?” “How! presumptuous knight,” replied the dwarf, “thinkst thou the mistress of our own royal affections, the sharer of our greatness, and the partner of our comeliness, would demean herself by laying charge on such a vassal as thou! No, highly as thou art honoured, thou hast not yet deserved the notice of Queen Guenevra, the lovely bride of Arthur, from whose high seat even princes seem but pigmies. But look thou here, and as thou knowst or disownest this token, so obey or refuse her commands, who hath deigned to impose them on thee.” So saying, he placed in the knight’s hands a ruby ring, which, even in the moonlight, he had no difficulty to recognize as that which usually graced the finger of the high-born lady to whose service he had devoted himself. Could he have doubted the truth of the token, he would have been convinced by the small knot of carnation-coloured ribbon, which was fastened to the ring. This was his lady’s favourite colour, and more than once had he himself, assuming it for that of his own liveries, caused the carnation to triumph over other hues in the lists and in the battle. Kenneth was struck nearly mute, by seeing such a token in such hands, while the dwarf called out in a tone of triumph, laughing aloud, and shaking his huge disproportioned head, “Now refuse my commands—now disobey my summons—now doubt that I am Arthur of Tintagel, who have right to command over all British chivalry.” “In the name of all that is sacred, from whom didst thou receive this token?” said the knight; “bring, if thou canst, thy wavering understanding to a right settlement for a minute or two, and tell me the person by whom thou art sent, and the real purpose of thy message—and take heed what thou sayst, for this is no subject for buffoonery.” “Fond and foolish knight,” said the dwarf, “wouldst thou know more of this matter, than that thou art honoured with commands from a princess, and sent by a king?—We list not to parley with thee

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farther than to command thee, in the name, and by the power of that ring, to follow us to her who is the owner of the ring. Every moment that thou tarriest is a crime against thine allegiance.” “Good Nectanabus—bethink thyself,” said the knight,—“Can my lady know where and upon what duty I am this night engaged?—Is she aware that my life—Pshaw, why should I speak of life—but that my honour depends on my guarding this banner till daybreak—and can it be her wish that I should leave it even to meet with her!—It is impossible—the princess is pleased to be merry with her servant, in sending him such a message; and I must think so the rather that she hath chosen such a messenger.” “Oh, keep your belief,” said Nectanabus, turning round as if to leave the platform, “it is little to me whether you be traitor or true man to this royal lady—so fare thee well.” “Stay, stay—I entreat you stay,” said Sir Kenneth; “answer me but one question—Is the lady who sent thee near to this place?” “What signifies it?” said the dwarf; “ought fidelity to reckon furlongs, or miles, or leagues—like the poor courier, who is paid for his labour by the distance which he traverses? Nevertheless, thou soul of suspicion, I tell thee, the fair owner of the ring, now sent to so unworthy a vassal, in whom there is neither truth nor courage, is not more distant from this place, than this our arblast can send a bolt.” The knight gazed again on the ring, as if to ascertain that there was no possible falsehood in the token.—“Tell me,” he said to the dwarf, “is my presence required for any length of time?” “Time!” answered Nectanabus, in his flighty manner; “what call you time? I see it not—I feel it not—it is but a shadowy name—a succession of breathings measured forth by night by the clank of a bell, by day by a shadow crossing along a dial-stone. Know’st thou not a true knight’s time should only be reckoned by the deeds that he performs in behalf of God and his lady?” “The words of truth, though in the mouth of folly,” said the knight. “And doth my lady really summon me to some deed of action, in her name and for her sake?—and may it not be postponed for even the few hours till daybreak?” “She requires thy presence instantly,” said the dwarf, “and without the loss of so much time as would be told by ten grains of the sandglass—Hearken, thou cold-blooded and suspicious knight, these are her very words—Tell him that the hand which dropped roses can bestow laurels.” This allusion to their meeting in the chapel of Engaddi, sent a thousand recollections through Sir Kenneth’s brain, and convinced

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him that the message delivered by the dwarf was genuine. The rosebuds, withered as they were, were still treasured under his cuirass, and nearest to his heart. He paused, and could not resolve to forego an opportunity—the only one which might ever offer, to gain grace in her eyes, whom he had installed as sovereign of his affections. The dwarf, in the meantime, augmented his confusion by insisting either that he must return the ring, or instantly attend him. “Hold, hold yet a moment, hold,” said the Knight, and proceeded to mutter to himself—“Am I either the subject or slave of King Richard, more than as a free knight sworn to the service of the crusade? And whom have I come hither to honour with lance and sword?—Our holy cause and my transcendant lady.” “The ring, the ring—” exclaimed the dwarf, impatiently; “false and slothful knight, return the ring, which thou art unworthy to touch or to look upon.” “A moment, a moment, good Nectanabus,” said Sir Kenneth; “disturb not my thoughts.—What if the Saracens were just now to attack our lines? Should I stay here like a sworn vassal of England, watching that her pride suffered no humiliation; or should I speed to the breach, and fight for the Cross?—To the breach assuredly; and next to the cause of God come the commands of my liege lady.—And yet, Coeur de Lion’s behest—my own promise!—Nectanabus, I conjure thee once more to say, are you to conduct me far from hence?” “But to yonder pavilion; and since you must needs know,” replied Nectanabus, “the moon is glimmering on the gilded ball which crowns its roof, and which is worth a king’s ransom.” “I can return in an instant,” said the knight, shutting his eyes desperately to all farther consequence. “I can hear from thence the bay of my dog, if any one approaches the standard—I will throw myself at my lady’s feet, and pray her leave to return to conclude my watch—here, Roswal, (calling his hound, and throwing down his mantle by the side of the standard-spear,) watch thou here, and let no one approach.” The majestic dog looked in his master’s face, as if to be sure that he understood his charge, then sat down beside the mantle, with ears erect and head raised, as if understanding perfectly the purpose for which he was stationed there. “Come now, good Nectanabus,” said the knight, “let us hasten to obey the commands thou hast brought.” “Haste he that will,” said the dwarf, sullenly; “thou hast not been in haste to obey my summons, nor can I walk fast enough to follow your long strides—you do not walk like a man, but bound like an ostrich in the desert.”

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There were but two ways of conquering the obstinacy of Nectanabus, who, as he spoke, diminished his walk into a snail pace—for bribes Kenneth had no means—for soothing no time—in his impatience he snatched the dwarf from the ground, and bearing him along, notwithstanding his entreaties and his fear, reached nearly to the pavilion pointed out as that of the Queen. In approaching it, however, the Scot observed there was a small guard of soldiers sitting on the ground, who had been concealed from him by the intervening tents. Wondering that the clash of his own armour had not yet attracted their attention, and supposing that his motions might, on the present occasion, require to be conducted with secrecy, he placed the little panting guide upon the ground to recover his breath, and point out what was next to be done. Nectanabus was both frightened and angry; but he had felt himself as completely in the power of the robust knight, as an owl in the claws of an eagle, and therefore cared not to provoke him to any farther display of his strength. He made no complaints, therefore, of the usage he had received, but turning amongst the labyrinth of tents, he led the knight in silence to the opposite side of the pavilion, which thus screened them from the observation of the warders, who seemed either too negligent or too sleepy to discharge their duty with much accuracy. Arrived here, the dwarf raised the under part of the canvass from the ground, and made signs to Kenneth that he should introduce himself to the inside of the tent, by creeping under it. The knight hesitated—there seemed an indecorum in thus privately introducing himself into a pavilion, pitched, doubtless, for the accommodation of noble ladies; but he recalled to remembrance the assured tokens which the dwarf had exhibited, and concluded that it was not for him to dispute his lady’s pleasure. He stoopt accordingly, crept beneath the canvass inclosure of the tent, and heard the dwarf whisper from without,—“Remain there until I call thee.”

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Chapter Thirteen You talk of Gaiety and Innocence! The moment when the fatal fruit was eaten, They parted ne’er to meet again; and Malice Has ever since been playmate to light Gaiety, From the first moment when the smiling infant Destroys the flower or butterfly he toys with, To the last chuckle of the dying miser, Who hears his neighbour hath been made a bankrupt. Old Play

S  K    was left for some minutes alone, and in darkness. Here was another interruption, which must prolong his absence from his post, and he began almost to repent the facility with which he had been induced to quit it. But to return without seeing the Lady Edith, was now not to be thought of. He had committed a breach of military discipline, and was determined at least to prove the reality of the seductive expectations which had tempted him to do so. Meanwhile, his situation was unpleasant. There was no light to show him into what sort of apartment he had been led—the Lady Edith was in immediate attendance on the Queen of England—and the discovery of his having introduced himself thus furtively into the royal pavilion, might, were it discovered, lead to much and dangerous suspicion. While he gave way to these unpleasant reflections, and began almost to wish that he could achieve his retreat unobserved, he heard a noise of female voices, laughing, whispering, and speaking, in an adjoining apartment, from which, as the sounds gave him room to judge, he could only be separated by a canvass partition. Lamps were burning, as he might perceive by the shadowy light which extended itself even to his side of the veil which divided the tent, and he could see shades of several figures sitting and moving in the adjoining apartment. It cannot be termed discourtesy in Kenneth, that situated as he was, he overheard a conversation, in which he found himself deeply interested. “Call her—call her, for Our Lady’s sake,” said the voice of one of these laughing invisibles. “Nectanabus, thou shalt be made ambassador to Prester John’s court, to show them how wisely thou canst discharge thee of a mission.” The shrill tone of the dwarf was heard, yet so much subdued, that Sir Kenneth could not understand what he said, except that he spoke something of the means of merriment given to the guard. “But how shall we rid us of the spirit which Nectanabus hath raised, my maidens?”

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“Hear me, royal madam,” said another voice; “if the sage and princely Nectanabus be not over-jealous of his most transcendant bride and empress, let us send her to get us rid of this insolent knight-errant, who can be so easily persuaded that high-born dames may need the use of his insolent and over-weening valour.” “It were but justice, methinks,” replied another, “that the Princess Guenevra should dismiss, by her courtesy, him, whom her husband’s wisdom has been able to entice hither.” Struck to the heart with shame and resentment at what he had heard, Sir Kenneth was about to attempt his escape from the tent at all hazards, when what followed arrested his purpose. “Nay, truly,” said the first speaker, “our cousin Edith must first learn how this vaunted knight hath conducted himself, and we must reserve the power of giving her ocular proof that he hath failed in his duty—it may be a lesson will do good upon her—for, credit me, Calista, I have sometimes thought she has let this northern adventurer sit nearer her heart than prudence would sanction.” The other was heard to mutter something of the Lady Edith’s prudence and wisdom. “Prudence, wench!” was the reply—“It is mere pride, and the desire to be thought more rigid than any of us. Nay, I will not quit my advantage. You know well, that when she has us at fault, no one can, in a civil way, lay your error before you more precisely than can my Lady Edith—But here she comes.” A figure, as if entering the apartment, cast upon the partition a shade, which glided along slowly until it mixed with those which already clouded it. Despite of the bitter mortification which he had experienced—despite the insult and injury with which it seemed he had been visited by the malice, or, at best, by the idle humour of Queen Berengaria, for he already concluded that she who spoke loudest and in a commanding tone was the wife of Richard, the knight felt something so soothing to his feelings in learning that Edith had been no partner to the fraud practised on him, and so interesting to his curiosity in the scene which was about to take place, that, instead of prosecuting his more prudent purpose of an instant retreat, he looked anxiously, on the contrary, for some rent or crevice, by means of which he might be made eye as well as earwitness to what was to go forward. “Surely,” said he to himself, “the Queen, who hath been pleased for an idle frolic to endanger my reputation, and perhaps my life, cannot complain, if I avail myself of the chance which fortune seems willing to afford me to obtain knowledge of her further intentions.” It seemed, in the meanwhile, as if Edith were waiting for the

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commands of the Queen, and as if the other were reluctant to speak, for fear of being unable to command her laughter, and that of her companions; for Kenneth could only distinguish a sound as of suppressed tittering and merriment. “Your Majesty,” said Edith, at last, “seems in a merry mood, though, methinks, the hour of night prompts a sleepy one. I was well disposed bed-ward, when I had your Majesty’s commands to attend you.” “I will not long delay you, cousin, from your repose,” said the Queen; “though I fear you will sleep less soundly when I tell you your wager is lost.” “Nay, royal madam,” said Edith, “this, surely, is dwelling on a jest which has rather been worn out—I laid no wager, however it was your Majesty’s pleasure to suppose, or to insist, that I did so.” “Nay, now, despite our pilgrimage, Satan is strong with you, my gentle cousin, and prompts thee to leasing—Can you deny that you gaged your ruby ring against my golden bracelet, that yonder Knight of the Libbard, or how call you him, could not be seduced from his post?” “Your Majesty is too great for me to gainsay you,” replied Edith; “but these ladies can, if they will, bear me witness, that it was your Highness who proposed such a wager, and took the ring from my finger, even while I was declaring that I did not think it maidenly to gage anything on such a subject.” “Nay, but, my Lady Edith,” said another voice, “you must needs grant, under your favour, that you expressed yourself very confident of the valour of that same knight of the Leopard.” “And if I did, minion,” said Edith, angrily, “is that a good reason why thou shouldst put in thy word to flatter her Majesty’s humour? I spoke of him but as all men speak who have seen him in the field, and had no more interest in defending than thou in detracting from him. In a camp, what can women speak of save soldiers and deeds of arms?” “The noble Lady Edith,” said a third voice, “hath never forgiven Calista and me, since we told your Majesty that she dropped two rose-buds in the chapel.” “If your Majesty,” said Edith, in a tone which Kenneth could judge to be that of respectful remonstrance, “have no other commands for me than to hear the gibes of your waiting-women, I must crave your permission to withdraw.” “Silence, Florice,” said the Queen, “and let not our indulgence lead you to forget the difference betwixt yourself and the kinswoman of England.—But you, my dear cousin,” she continued, resuming

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her tone of raillery, “how can you, who are so good-natured, begrudge us poor wretches a few minutes’ laughing, when we have had so many days devoted to weeping and gnashing of teeth?” “Great be your mirth, royal lady,” said Edith; “yet would I be content not to smile for the rest of my life, rather than——” She stopped, apparently out of respect; but Kenneth could hear that she was in much agitation. “Forgive me,” said Berengaria, a thoughtless but good-humoured princess of the House of Navarre,—“but what is the great offence after all?—A young knight has been wiled hither—has stolen—or has been stolen—from his post, which no one will disturb in his absence, for the sake of a fair lady—for, to do your champion justice, lady, the wisdom of Nectanabus could conjure him hither in no name but yours.” “Gracious Heaven! your Majesty does not say so?” said Edith, in a voice of yet greater alarm than she had hitherto evinced, “you cannot say so, consistently with respect for your own honour and for mine, your husband’s kinswoman—Say you were jesting with me, my royal mistress, and forgive me that I could, even for a moment, think it possible you could be in earnest.” “The Lady Edith,” said the Queen, in a displeased tone of voice, “regrets the ring we have won of her.—We will restore the pledge to you, gentle cousin, only you must not grudge us in turn a little triumph over the wisdom which has been so often spread over us, as a banner over a host.” “A triumph!” exclaimed Edith, indignantly; “a triumph!—the triumph will be with the infidel, when he hears that the Queen of England can make the reputation of her husband’s kinswoman the subject of a light frolic.” “You are angry, fair cousin, at losing your favourite ring,” said the Queen—“Come, since you grudge to pay your wager, we will renounce our right; it was your name and that pledge brought him hither, and we care not for the bait after the fish is caught.” “Madam,” replied Edith, impatiently, “you know well that your Grace could not wish for anything of mine but it becomes instantly yours. But I would give a bushel of rubies ere ring or name of mine had been used to bring a brave man into a fault, and perhaps to disgrace and punishment.” “O, it is for the safety of our true knight that we fear!” said the Queen. “You rate our power too low, fair cousin, when you speak of a life being lost for a frolic of ours. O, Lady Edith, others have influence on the iron breasts of warriors as well as you—the heart even of a lion is made of flesh, not of stone; and, believe me, I have

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interest enough with Richard to save this knight, in whose fate Lady Edith is so deeply concerned, from the penalty of disobeying his royal commands.” “For the love of the blessed Cross, most royal lady,” said Edith— and Kenneth, with feelings which it were hard to unravel, heard her prostrate herself at the Queen’s feet,—“for the love of our blessed Lady, and of every holy saint in the calendar, beware what you do! You know not King Richard—you have been but shortly wedded to him—your breath might as well combat the west wind when it is wildest, as your words persuade my royal kinsman to pardon a military offence. Oh! for God’s sake, dismiss this gentleman, if indeed you have lured him hither—I could almost be content to rest with the shame of having invited him, did I know that he was returned again where his duty calls him.” “Arise, cousin, arise,” said Queen Berengaria, “and be assured all will be better than you think. Nay, rise, dear Edith; I am sorry I have played my foolery with a knight in whom you take such deep interest—Nay, wring not thy hands—I will believe thou carest not for him—believe anything rather than see thee look so wretchedly miserable—I tell thee I will take the blame on myself with King Richard in behalf of thy fair northern friend—thine acquaintance, I would say, since thou ownst him not as a friend.—Nay, look not so reproachfully—We will send Nectanabus to dismiss this Knight of the Standard to his post; and we ourselves will grace him on some future day, to make amends for his wild-goose chase. He is, I warrant, but lying perdu in some neighbouring tent.” “By my crown of lilies, and my sceptre of a specially good waterreed,” said Nectanabus, “your Majesty is mistaken—he is nearer at hand than you wot—he lieth ensconced behind yonder canvass partition.” “And within hearing of each word we have said!” exclaimed the Queen, in her turn violently surprised and agitated—“Out, monster of folly and malignity!” As she uttered these words, Nectanabus fled from the pavilion with a yell of such a nature, as leaves it still doubtful whether Berengaria had confined her rebuke to words, or had added some more emphatic expression of her displeasure. “What can now be done?” said the Queen to Edith, in a whisper of undisguised uneasiness. “That which must,” said Edith, firmly. “We must see this gentleman, and place ourselves in his mercy.” So saying, she began hastily to undo a curtain, which at one place covered an entrance or communication.

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“For Heaven’s sake, forbear—consider—” said the Queen, “my apartment—our dress—the hour—my honour!” But ere she could detail her remonstrances, the curtain fell, and there was no division any longer betwixt the armed knight and the party of ladies. The warmth of an eastern night occasioned the undress of Queen Berengaria and her household to be more simple and unstudied than their station, and the presence of a male spectator of rank, required. This the Queen remembered, and with a loud shriek fled from the apartment where Sir Kenneth was disclosed to view in a copartment of the ample pavilion, now no longer separated from that in which they stood. The grief and agitation of the Lady Edith, as well as the deep interest she felt in a hasty explanation with Kenneth, perhaps occasioned her forgetting that her locks were more dishevelled, and her person less heedfully covered, than was the wont of high-born damsels in an age, which was not after all the most prudish or scrupulous period of the ancient time. A thin loose garment of pink-coloured silk made the principal part of her vestments, with oriental slippers, into which she had hastily thrust her bare feet, and a scarf hurriedly and loosely thrown about her shoulders. Her head had no other covering than the veil of rich and dishevelled locks falling round it on every side, that half hid a countenance, which a mingled sense of modesty, and of resentment, and other deep and agitating feelings, had covered with crimson. But although Edith felt her situation with all that delicacy which is her sex’s greatest charm, it did not seem that for a moment she placed her own bashfulness in comparison with the duty, which, as she thought, she owed to him, who had been led into error and danger on her account. She drew, indeed, her scarf more closely over her neck and bosom, and she hastily laid from her hand a lamp, which shed too much lustre over her figure. But, while Kenneth stood motionless on the same spot in which he was first discovered, she rather stepped towards than retired from him, as she exclaimed, “Hasten to your post, valiant knight—you are deceived in being trained hither—ask no questions.” “I need ask none,” said the knight, sinking upon one knee, with the reverential devotion of a saint at the altar, and bending his eyes on the ground, lest his looks should increase the lady’s embarrassment. “Have you heard all?” said Edith, impatiently—“Gracious saints! then wherefore wait you here, when each minute that passes is loaded with dishonour!” “I have heard that I am dishonoured, lady, and I have heard it from you. What reck I how soon punishment follows? I have but one

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petition to you, and then I seek, among the sabres of the infidels, whether dishonour may not be washed out with blood.” “Do not so, neither,” said the lady. “Be wise—dally not here—all may yet be well, if you will but use dispatch.” “I wait but for your forgiveness,” said the knight, still kneeling, “for my presumption in believing poor services could have been required or valued by you.” “I do forgive you—O, I have nothing to forgive!—I have been the means of injuring you—But O, begone!—I will forgive—I will value you—that is, as I value every brave crusader—if you will but begone!” “Receive, first, this precious yet fatal pledge,” said the knight, tendering the ring to Edith, who now showed gestures of impatience. “Oh no, no,” she said, declining to receive it. “Keep it—keep it as a mark of my regard—my regret, I would say. O begone, if not for your own sake, for mine!” Almost recompensed for the loss even of honour, which her voice had denounced to him, by the interest which she seemed to testify in his safety, Sir Kenneth rose from his knee, and, casting a momentary glance on Edith, bowed low and seemed about to withdraw. At the same instant, that maidenly bashfulness, which the energy of Edith’s feelings had till then triumphed over, became conqueror in its turn, and she hastened from the apartment, extinguishing her lamp as she went, and leaving, in Sir Kenneth’s thoughts, both mental and natural gloom behind her. She must be obeyed, was the first distinct idea which waked him from his reverie, and he hastened to the place by which he had entered the pavilion. To creep under the canvass in the manner he had entered, required time and attention, and he made a readier aperture by slitting the canvass wall with his poniard. When in the free air, he felt rather stupified and overpowered by a conflict of sensations, than able to ascertain what was the real import of the whole. He was obliged to spur himself to action, by recollecting that the commands of the Lady Edith had required haste. Even then, engaged as he was amongst tent-ropes and tents, he was compelled to move with caution until he should regain the great route or avenue, aside from which the dwarf had led him, in order to escape the observation of the guards before the Queen’s pavilion; and he was obliged also to move slowly, and with precaution, to avoid giving an alarm, either by falling or by the clashing of his armour. A thin cloud had obscured the moon, too, at the very moment of his leaving the tent, and Kenneth had to struggle with this inconvenience at a moment when the dizziness of his head, and the fulness of his heart, scarce left him powers of intelligence sufficient to direct his motions.

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But at once sounds came upon his ear, which instantly recalled him to the full energy of his faculties. These proceeded from the Mount of Saint George. He heard first a single fierce, angry, and savage bark, which was immediately followed by a yell of agony. No deer ever bounded with a wilder start at the voice of Roswal, than did Kenneth at what he feared was the death-cry of that noble hound, from whom no ordinary injury could have extracted even the slightest acknowledgment of pain. He surmounted the space which divided him from the avenue, and, having attained it, began to run towards the Mount, although loaded with his mail, faster than most men could have accompanied him even if unarmed, relaxed not his pace for the steep sides of the artificial mound, and in a few minutes stood on the platform upon its summit. The moon broke through the cloud at this moment, and showed him that the standard of England was vanished, that the spear on which it floated lay broken on the ground, and beside it was his faithful hound, apparently in the agonies of death.    

TALES OF THE CRUSADERS

tale ii THE TALISMAN

Chapter One —All my long avarice of honour lost, Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age. Hath Honour’s fountain then suck’d up the stream? He hath—and hooting boys may barefoot pass, And gather pebbles from the naked ford. Don Sebastian

A  a torrent of afflicting sensations, by which he was at first almost stunned and confounded, Kenneth’s first thought was to look for the authors of this violation of the English banner; but in no direction could he see traces of them. His next, which some persons, but scarce any who have made intimate acquaintances among the canine race, may esteem strange, was to examine the condition of his faithful Roswal, mortally wounded, as it seemed, in discharging the duty which his master had been seduced to abandon. He caressed the dying animal, who, faithful to the last, seemed to forget his own pain in the satisfaction he received from his master’s presence, and continued wagging his tail and licking his hand, even while by low moanings he expressed that his agony was increased by the attempts which Kenneth made to withdraw from the wound the fragment of the lance, or javelin, with which it had been inflicted; then redoubled his feeble endearments, as if fearing he had offended his master by showing a sense of the pain to which his interference had subjected him. There was something in the display of the dying creature’s attachment, which mixed as a bitter ingredient with the sense of disgrace and desolation by which Kenneth was oppressed. His only friend seemed removed from him, just when he had incurred the contempt and hatred of all besides. The knight’s strength of mind gave way to a burst of 133

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agonized distress, and he groaned and wept aloud. While he thus indulged his grief, a clear and solemn voice, close beside him, pronounced these words in the sonorous tone of the readers in the mosque, and in the lingua franca, mutually understood by Christians and Saracens:— “Adversity is like the period of the former and of the latter rains, —cold, comfortless, unfriendly to man and to animal; yet from thence comes the flower and the fruit, the date, and the rose, and the pomegranate.” Sir Kenneth of the Leopard turned towards the speaker, and beheld the Arabian physician, who, having approached him unheard, had seated himself a little behind him cross-legged, and uttered with gravity, yet not without a tone of sympathy, the moral sentences of consolation with which the Koran and its commentators supplied him; for, in the East, wisdom is held to consist, not in a display of the sage’s own inventive talents, but in his ready memory, and happy application of and reference to “that which is written.” Ashamed at being surprised in a womanlike expression of sorrow, Kenneth dashed his tears indignantly aside, and again busied himself with his dying favourite. “The poet hath said,” continued the Arab, without noticing Kenneth’s averted looks and sullen deportment, “the ox for the field, and the camel for the desert. Were not the hand of the leech fitter than that of the soldier to cure wounds, though less able to inflict them?” “This patient, Hakim, is beyond thy help,” said the knight; “and, besides, he is, by thy law, an unclean animal.” “Where Allah hath deigned to bestow life, and a sense of pain and pleasure,” said the physician, “it were sinful pride should the sage, whom he has enlightened, refuse to prolong existence, or assuage agony. To the sage, the cure of a miserable groom, of a poor dog, and of a conquering monarch, are events of little distinction. Let me examine this wounded animal.” Kenneth receded in silence, and the physician inspected and handled Roswal’s wound with as much care and attention as if he had been a human being. He then took forth a case of instruments, and, by the judicious and skilful application of pincers, withdrew from the wounded shoulder the fragment of the weapon, and stopped with styptics and bandages the effusion of blood which followed; the animal all the while suffering him patiently to perform these kind offices, as if he had been aware of his kind intentions. “The animal may be cured,” said the Hakim, addressing himself to Kenneth, “if you will permit me to carry him to my tent, and treat

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him with the care which the nobleness of his nature deserves—For know, that your servant Adonbec is no less skilful in the race and pedigree, and distinctions of good dogs and of noble steeds, than in the diseases which affect the human race.” “Take him with you,” said the knight. “I bestow him on you freely if he recover—I owe thee a reward for attendance on my squire, and have nothing else to pay it with—For myself, I will never again wind bugle, or halloo to hound.” The Arabian made no reply, but gave a signal with a clapping of his hands, which was instantly answered by the appearance of two black slaves. He gave them his orders in Arabic, received the answer, that “to hear was to obey,” when, taking the animal in their arms, they removed him, without much resistance on his part; for though his eyes turned to his master, he was too weak to struggle. “Fare thee well, Roswal, then,” said Kenneth,—“fare thee well, my last and only friend—thou art too noble a possession to be retained by one such as I must in future call myself.—I would,” he said, as the slaves retired, “that, dying as he is, I could exchange conditions with that noble animal.” “It is written,” answered the Arabian, although the exclamation had not been addressed to him, “that all creatures are fashioned for the service of man; and the master of the earth speaketh folly when he would exchange, in his impatience, his hopes here and to come, for the servile condition of an inferior being.” “A dog who dies in discharging his duty,” said Kenneth, sternly, “is better than a man who deserts it—Leave me, Hakim—Thou hast, on this side of miracle, the most wonderful science which man ever possessed, but the wounds of the spirit are beyond thy power.” “Not if the patient will explain his calamity, and be guided by the physician,” said Adonbec El Hakim. “Know, then,” said Kenneth, “since thou art so importunate, that last night, the Banner of England was displayed from this mound—I was its appointed guardian—morning is now breaking—there lies the broken banner-spear—the standard itself is lost—and here sit I a living man.” “Ha!” said the Hakim, examining him; “thy armour is whole— there is no blood on thy weapons, and report speaks thee one unlikely to return thus from fight—thou hast been trained from thy post— ay, trained by the rosy cheek and black eye of one of those houris, to whom ye Nazarenes vow rather such service as is due to Allah, than such love as may lawfully be rendered to forms of clay like our own —It has been thus assuredly; for so hath man ever fallen, even since the days of Sultan Adam.”

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“And if it were so, physician,” said Kenneth, sullenly, “what remedy?” “Knowledge is the parent of power,” said El Hakim, “as valour supplies strength.—Listen to me—Man is not as a tree, bound to one spot of earth—nor is he framed to cling to one bare rock, like the scarce animated shell-fish. Thine own Christian writings command thee, when persecuted in one city to flee to another; and we Moslem also know that Mahommed, the Prophet of Allah, driven forth from the holy city of Mecca, found his refuge and his helpmates at Medina.” “And what does this concern me?” said the Scot. “Much,” answered the physician. “Even the sage flies the tempest which he cannot control—Use thy speed, therefore, and fly from the vengeance of Richard to the shadow of Saladin’s victorious banner.” “I might indeed hide my dishonour,” said Kenneth, ironically, “in a camp of infidel heathens, where the very phrase is unknown.—But had I not better partake more fully in their reproach? Does not thy advice stretch so far as to recommend me to take the turban? Methinks I want but apostacy to consummate my infamy.” “Blaspheme not, Nazarene,” said the physician, sternly; “Saladin makes no converts to the law of the Prophet, save those on whom its precepts shall work conviction. Open thine eyes to the light, and the great Soldan, whose liberality is as boundless as his power, may bestow on thee a kingdom; remain blinded if thou wilt, and, being one whose second life is doomed to misery, Saladin will yet, in this span of present time, make thee rich and happy. But fear not that thy brows shall be bound with the turban, save at thine own free choice.” “My choice were rather,” said the knight, “that my writhen features should blacken, as they are like to do, in this evening’s setting sun.” “Yet thou art not wise, Nazarene,” said El Hakim, “to reject this fair offer; for I have power with Saladin, and can raise thee high in his grace. Look you, my son—this crusade, as you call your wild enterprize, is like a large dromond* parting asunder in the waves. Thou thyself hast borne terms of truce from the Kings and Princes whose force is here assembled, to the mighty Soldan, and knewst not, perchance, the full tenor of thine own errand.” “I know not, and I care not,” said the Knight, impatiently; “what avails it to me that I have been of late the envoy of princes, when, ere night, I will be a gibbetted and dishonoured corse?” “Nay, I speak that it may not be so with thee,” said the physician. * The largest sort of vessels then known, were termed dromonds, or dromedaries.

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“Saladin is courted on all sides; the combined Princes of this league formed against him have made such proposals of composition and peace, as, in other circumstances, it might have become his honour to have granted to them. Others have made private offers on their own separate account, to disjoin their forces from the camp of the Kings of Frangistan, and even to lend their arms to the defence of the standard of the Prophet. But Saladin will not be served by such treacherous and interested defection. The King of Kings will treat only with the Lion King. Saladin will hold treaty with none but the Melek Ric, and with him he will treat like a prince, or fight like a champion. To Richard he will yield such conditions of his free liberality, as the swords of all Europe could never compel from him by force or terror. He will permit a free pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and all the places where the Nazarenes list to worship—nay, he will so far share even his empire with his brother Richard, that he will allow Christian garrisons in the six strongest cities of Palestine, and one in Jerusalem itself, and suffer them to be under the immediate command of the officers of Richard, who, he consents, shall bear the name of King Guardian of Jerusalem. Yet farther, strange and incredible as you may think it, know, Sir Knight—for to your honour I can commit even that almost incredible secret—know that Saladin will put a sacred seal on this happy union betwixt the bravest and noblest of Frangistan and Asia, by raising to the rank of his royal spouse a Christian damsel, allied in blood to King Richard, and known by the name of the Lady Edith Plantagenet.”* “Ha!—sayst thou?” exclaimed Kenneth, who, listening with indifference and apathy to the preceding part of El Hakim’s speech, was touched by this last communication, as the thrill of a nerve unexpectedly jarred, will awaken the sensation of agony, even in the torpor of palsy. Then moderating his tone, by dint of much effort, he restrained his indignation, and veiling it under the appearance of contemptuous doubt, he prosecuted the conversation, in order to get as much knowledge as possible of the plot, as he deemed it, against the honour and happiness of her, whom he loved not the less that his passion had ruined apparently his fortunes, at once, and his honour.—“And what Christian,” he said, with tolerable calmness, “would sanction an union so unnatural, as that of a Christian maiden with an unbelieving Saracen?” * This may appear so extraordinary and improbable a proposition, that it is necessary to say such a one was actually made. The historians, however, substitute the widowed Queen of Naples, sister of Richard, for the bride, and Saladin’s brother for the bridegroom. They appear to be ignorant of the existence of Edith Plantagenet.—See M  ’s History of the Crusades, vol. II. p. 60.

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“Thou art but an ignorant, bigotted Nazarene. Seest thou not,” said the Hakim, “how the Mahommedan princes daily intermarry with the noble Nazarene maidens in Spain, without scandal either to Moor or Christian? And the noble Soldan will, in his full confidence in the blood of Richard, permit the English maid the freedom which your Frankish manners have assigned to women. He will allow her the free exercise of her religion,—seeing that, in very truth, it signifies but little to which faith females are addicted,—and he will assign her such place and rank over all the other women of his zenana, that she shall be in every respect his sole and absolute Queen.” “What!” said Kenneth, “darest thou think, Moslem, that Richard would give his kinswoman—a high-born and virtuous princess—to be at best the foremost concubine in the haram of a misbeliever! Know, Hakim, the meanest free Christian noble would scorn, on his child’s behalf, such splendid ignominy.” “Thou errest,” said the Hakim; “Philip of France, and Henry of Champagne, and others of Richard’s principal allies, have heard the proposal without starting, and have promised, as far as they may, to forward an alliance that may end these wasteful wars; and the wise arch-priest of Tyre hath undertaken to break the proposal to Richard, not doubting that he shall be able to bring the plan to good issue. The Soldan’s wisdom hath as yet kept his proposition secret from others, such as he of Montserrat, and the Master of the Templars, because he knows they seek to thrive by Richard’s death or disgrace, not by his life or honour.—Up, therefore, Sir Knight, and to horse. I will give thee a scroll which shall advance thee highly with the Soldan; and deem not that you are leaving your country, or her cause, or her religion, since the interest of the two monarchs will speedily be the same. To Saladin thy counsel will be most acceptable, since thou canst make him aware of much concerning the marriages of the Christians, the treatment of their wives, and other points of their laws and usages, which, in the course of such treaty, it much concerns him that he should know. The right hand of the Soldan grasps the treasures of the East, and is the fountain of generosity. Or, if thou desirest it, Saladin, when allied with England, can have but little difficulty to obtain from Richard not only thy pardon and restoration to favour, but an honourable command in the troops which may be left of the King of England’s host, to maintain their joint government in Palestine. Up, then, and mount—there lies a plain path before thee.” “Hakim,” said the Scottish Knight, “thou art a man of peace— also, thou hast saved the life of Richard of England—and, moreover, of my own poor esquire, Strauchan. I have, therefore, heard to an

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end a matter, which being propounded by another Moslem than thyself, I would have cut short with a blow of my dagger. Hakim, in return for thy kindness, I advise thee to see that the Saracen, who shall propose to Richard an union betwixt the blood of Plantagenet and that of his accursed race, do put on a helmet which is capable to endure such a blow of a battle-axe as that which struck down the gate of Acre. Certes, he will be otherwise placed beyond the reach even of thy skill.” “Thou art, then, wilfully determined not to fly to the Saracen host?—Yet remember, thou stayest to certain destruction; and the writings of thy law, as well as ours, prohibit man from breaking into the tabernacle of his own life.” “God forbid!” replied the Scot, crossing himself; “but we are also forbidden to avoid the punishment which our crimes have deserved; and since so poor are thy thoughts of fidelity, Hakim, it grudges me that I have bestowed my good hound on thee, for should he live, he will have a master ignorant of his value.” “A gift that is begrudged is already recalled,” said the Hakim, “only we physicians are sworn not to send away a patient uncured. If the dog recover, he is once more yours.” “Go to, Hakim,” answered Sir Kenneth; “men speak not of hawk and hound when there is but an hour of day-breaking betwixt them and death. Leave me to recollect my sins, and reconcile myself with Heaven.” “I leave thee in thine obstinacy,” said the physician; “the mist hides the precipice from those who are doomed to fall over it.” He withdrew slowly, turning from time to time his head, as if to observe whether the devoted knight might not recall him either by word or signal. At last his turbaned figure was lost among the labyrinth of tents which lay extended beneath, whitening in the pale light of the dawning, before which the moonbeam had faded now away. But although the physician Adonbec’s words had not made that impression upon Kenneth which the sage desired, they had inspired the Scot with a motive for desiring life, which, dishonoured as he conceived himself, he had been willing to part from as from a sullied vestment no longer becoming his wear. A number of circumstances, which passed both betwixt himself and the hermit, and which he had observed to take place betwixt the anchoret and Sheerkohf, (or Ilderim,) and which he now recalled to recollection, went to confirm what the Hakim had told him of the secret article of the treaty. “The reverend impostor!” he exclaimed to himself; “the hoary hypocrite! He spoke of the unbelieving husband converted by the

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believing wife—and what do I know but that the traitor exhibited to the Saracen, accursed of God, the beauties of Edith Plantagenet, that the hound might judge if she were fit to be admitted into the haram of a misbeliever? If I had yonder infidel once more in the gripe, with which I once held him fast as ever hound held hare, never again should he at least come on errand disgraceful to the honour of Christian king, or noble and virtuous maiden. But I—my hours are fast dwindling into minutes—yet while I have life and breath, something must be done, and speedily.” He paused for a few minutes, threw from him his helmet, then strode down the hill, and took the road to King Richard’s pavilion.

Chapter Two The feather’d songster, chanticleer, Had wound his bugle-horn, And told the early villager The coming of the morn. King Edward saw the ruddy streaks Of light eclipse the gray, And heard the raven’s croaking throat Proclaim the fated day. “Thou’rt right,” he said, “for by the God, That sits enthroned on high, Charles Bawdwin, and his fellows twain, This day shall surely die.” C

O            on which Sir Kenneth assumed his post, Richard, after the stormy event which disturbed its tranquillity, had retired to rest in the plenitude of confidence inspired by his unbounded courage, and the superiority which he had displayed in carrying the point he aimed at in presence of the whole Christian host, and its leaders, many of whom, he was aware, regarded in their secret souls the disgrace of the Austrian Duke as a triumph over themselves —So that his pride felt gratified that in prostrating one enemy he had mortified an hundred. Another monarch would have doubled his guards on the evening after such a scene, and kept at least a part of his troops under arms. But Coeur de Lion dismissed, upon the occasion, even his ordinary watch, and assigned to his soldiers a donative of wine to celebrate his recovery, and to drink to the Banner of Saint George; and his quarter of the camp would have assumed a character wholly devoid of vigilance and military preparation, but that Sir Thomas de Vaux, the Earl of Salisbury, and other nobles, took precautions to preserve order and discipline among the revellers.

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The physician attended the King from his retiring to bed till midnight was past, and twice administered medicine to him during that period, always previously observing the quarter of heaven occupied by the full moon, whose influences he declared to be most sovereign, or most baleful to the effect of his drugs. It was three hours after midnight ere he withdrew from the royal tent, to one which had been pitched for himself and his retinue. In his way thither, he visited the tent of Sir Kenneth of the Leopard, in order to see the condition of his first patient in the Christian camp, old Strauchan, as the knight’s esquire was named. Inquiring there for Sir Kenneth himself, El Hakim learned on what duty he was employed, and probably this information led him to Saint George’s Mount, where he found him whom he sought in the disastrous circumstances alluded to in the last chapter. It was about the hour of sun-rise, when a slow, armed tread was heard approaching the King’s pavilion; and ere De Vaux, who slumbered beside his master’s bed as lightly as ever sleep sat upon the eyes of a watch-dog, had time to do more than arise and say, “Who comes?” the Knight of the Leopard entered the tent, with a deep and devoted gloom seated upon his manly features. “Whence this bold intrusion, Sir Knight?” said De Vaux, sternly, yet in a tone which respected his master’s slumbers. “Hold! De Vaux,” said Richard, awaking on the instant; “Sir Kenneth cometh like a good soldier to render an account of his guard—to such the General’s tent is ever accessible.”—Then rousing from his slumbering posture, and leaning on his elbow, he fixed his large bright eye upon the warrior—“Speak, Sir Scot, thou comest to tell me of a vigilant, safe, and honourable watch, doest thou not?— The rustling of the folds of the Banner of England were enough to guard it, even without the body of such a knight as men hold thee.” “As men will hold me no more,” said Sir Kenneth—“My watch hath never been vigilant, safe, nor honourable. The Banner of England has been carried off.” “And thou alive to tell it?” said Richard, in a tone of derisive incredulity,—“Away, it cannot be—there is not even a scratch on thy face. What doest thou stand there mute for?—speak the truth— it is ill jesting with a king. Yet I will forgive thee if thou hast lied.” “Lied! Sir King!” returned the unfortunate knight, with fierce emphasis, and one glance of fire from his eye, bright and transient as the flash from the dead and stony flint. “But this also must be endured—I have spoken the truth.” “By God, and by Saint George!” said the King, bursting into fury, which, however, he instantly checked—“De Vaux, go view the

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spot—This fever has disturbed my brain—This cannot be—the man’s courage is proof—our enemy’s cowardice well known—Go speedily—or send, if thou wilt not go.” The King was interrupted by Sir Henry Neville, who came, breathless, to say that the banner was gone, and the knight who guarded it overpowered, and most probably murdered, as there was a pool of blood where the banner-spear lay shivered. “But whom see I here?” said Neville, his eyes suddenly resting upon Kenneth. “A traitor,” said the King, starting to his feet, and seizing the curtal-axe, which was ever near his bed—“a traitor! whom thou shalt see die a traitor’s death.”—And he drew back the weapon as in act to strike. Colourless, but firm as a marble statue, the Scot stood before him, with his bare head uncovered by any protection, his eyes cast down to the earth, his lips scarcely moving, yet muttering probably in prayer. Opposite to him, and within the due reach for a blow, stood King Richard, his large person wrapt in the folds of his camiscia, or ample gown of linen, except where the violence of his action had flung the covering from his right arm, shoulder, and a part of his breast, leaving to view that specimen of a frame which might have merited his Saxon predecessor’s epithet of Ironside. He stood for an instant, prompt to strike—then sinking the head of the weapon towards the ground, he exclaimed, “But there was blood, Neville—there was blood on the place. Hark thee, Sir Scot—brave thou wert once, for I have seen thee fight—Say thou hast slain two of the thieves in defence of the Standard—say but one—say thou hast struck but a good blow in our behalf, and get thee out of the camp with thy life and thy infamy.” “You have called me liar, my Lord King,” replied Kenneth, firmly; “and therein, at least, you have done me wrong—Know, that there was no blood shed in defence of the Standard save that of a poor hound, which, more faithful than his master, defended the charge which he deserted.” “Now, by Saint George!” said Richard, again heaving up his arm —But De Vaux threw himself between the King and the object of his vengeance, and spoke with the blunt truth of his character, “My liege, this must not be here, nor by your own hand—it is enough of folly for one night and day, to have intrusted your banner to a Scot —Said I not they were ever fair and false?” “Thou didst, De Vaux; thou wert right, and I confess it,” said Richard. “I should have known better—I should have remembered how the fox William deceived me touching this crusade.”

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“My lord,” said Kenneth, “William of Scotland never deceived, but circumstances prevented his bringing his forces.” “Peace, shameless!” said the King; “thou sulliest the name of a prince, even by speaking it.—And yet, De Vaux, it is strange,” he added, “to see the bearing of the man—Coward or traitor he must be, yet he abode the blow of Richard Plantagenet, as our arm had been raised to lay knighthood on his shoulder. Had he shown the slightest sign of fear—had but a joint trembled, or an eyelid quivered, I had shattered his head like a crystal goblet. But I cannot strike where there is neither fear nor resistance.” There was a pause. “My lord,” said Kenneth. “Ha!” replied Richard, interrupting him, “hast thou found thy speech? Ask grace from Heaven, but none from me, for England is dishonoured through thy fault; and wert thou mine own and only brother, there is no pardon for thy fault.” “I speak not to demand grace of mortal man,” said Kenneth; “it is in your Grace’s pleasure to give or refuse me time for Christian shrift—if man denies it, may God grant me the absolution which I would otherwise ask of his Church. But whether I die on the instant, or half an hour hence, I equally beseech your Grace for one moment’s opportunity to speak that to your royal person, which highly concerns your fame as a Christian King.” “Say on,” said the King, nothing doubting that he was about to hear some confession concerning the loss of the Banner. “What I have to speak touches the royalty of England, and must be said to no ears but thine own.” “Begone with yourselves, sirs,” said the King to Neville and De Vaux. The first obeyed, but the latter would not stir from the King’s presence. “If you said I was in the right,” replied De Vaux to his sovereign, “I will be treated as one should be who hath been found to be right —that is, I will have my own will. I leave you not with this false Scot.” “How, De Vaux,” said Richard, angrily, and stamping slightly, “darest thou not venture our person with one traitor?” “It is in vain you frown and stamp, my lord,” said De Vaux; “I venture not a sick man with a sound one, a naked man with one armed in proof.” “It matters not,” said the Scottish knight, “I seek no excuse to put off time—I will speak in presence of the Lord of Gilsland. He is good lord and true.”

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“But half an hour since,” said De Vaux, with a groan, implying a mixture of sorrow and vexation, “and I had said as much for thee.” “Here is treason around you, King of England,” continued Sir Kenneth. “It may well be as thou sayest,” replied Richard, “I have a pregnant example.” “Treason that will injure thee more deeply than the loss of an hundred banners in a pitched field. The—the”—Kenneth hesitated, and at length continued, in a lower tone, “the Lady Edith”—— “Ha!” said the King, drawing himself suddenly into a state of haughty attention, and fixing his eye firmly on the supposed criminal; “What of her?—What of her?—What has she to do with this matter?” “My lord,” said the Scot, “there is a scheme on foot to disgrace your royal lineage, by bestowing the hand of the Lady Edith on the Saracen Soldan, and thereby to purchase a peace most dishonourable to Christendom, by an alliance most shameful to England.” This communication had precisely the contrary effect from that which Kenneth expected. Richard Plantagenet was one of those, who, in Iago’s words, would not serve God because it was the devil who bade him; advice or information often affected him less according to its real import, than through the tinge which it took from the supposed character and views of those by whom it was communicated. Unfortunately, the mention of his relative’s name renewed his recollection of what he had considered as extreme presumption in the Knight of the Leopard, even when he stood high in the rolls of chivalry, but which, in his present condition, seemed an insult sufficient to drive the fiery monarch into a frenzy of passion. “Silence,” he said, “infamous and audacious! By Heaven, I will have thy tongue torn out with hot pincers, for mentioning the name of a noble Christian damsel! Know, degenerate traitor, that I was already aware to what height thou hadst dared to raise thine eyes, and endured it, though it was insolence even when thou hadst cheated us—for thou art all a deceit—into holding thee as of some name and fame. But now, with lips blistered with the confession of thine own dishonour—that thou shouldst now dare to name our noble kinswoman as one in whose fate thou hast part or interest!— What is it to thee if she marry Saracen or Christian?—What is it to thee, if in a camp where Christian princes turn cowards by day, and robbers by night—where brave knights turn to paltry deserters and traitors—what is it, I say, to thee, or any one, if I should please to ally myself to truth, and to valour, in the person of Saladin?” “Little to me, indeed, to whom all the world will soon be as nothing,” answered Kenneth, boldly; “but were I now stretched on

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the rack, I would tell thee that what I have said is much to thine own conscience and thine own fame. I tell thee, Sir King, that if thou dost but in thought and for an instant entertain the purpose of wedding thy kinswoman, the Lady Edith”—— “Name her not—think not of her,” said the King, again straining the curtal-axe in his gripe, until the muscles started above his brawny arm, like cordage formed by the ivy around the limb of an oak. “Not name—not think of her!” answered Kenneth, his spirits, stunned as they were by self-depression, beginning to recover their elasticity from this species of controversy,—“Now, by the Cross, on which I place my hope, her name shall be the last word in my mouth, her image the last thought in my mind—try thy boasted strength on this bare brow, and see if thou canst prevent my purpose.” “He will drive me mad!”—said Richard, who, in his despite, was staggered in his purpose by the dauntless determination of the criminal. Ere Thomas of Gilsland could reply, some bustle was heard without, and the arrival of the Queen was announced from the outer part of the pavilion. “Detain her—detain her, Neville,” said the King; “this is no sight for woman—Fie, that I have suffered such a paltry traitor to chafe me thus!—Away with him, De Vaux,” he whispered, “through the back-entrance of our tent—Coop him up close, and answer for his life with your own.—And hark ye—he is presently to die—let him have a ghostly father—we would not kill soul and body.—And stay—hark thee—we will not have him dishonoured—he shall die knight-like, in his belt and spurs; for if his treachery be as black as hell, his boldness may match that of the devil himself.” De Vaux, right glad, if the truth may be guessed, that the scene ended without Richard’s descending to the unkingly act of himself slaying an unresisting prisoner, made haste to remove Sir Kenneth by a private issue to a separate tent, where he was disarmed and put in fetters for security. De Vaux looked on with a steady and melancholy attention, while the provost’s officers, to whom Kenneth was now committed, took these severe precautions. When they were ended, he said solemnly to the unhappy criminal —“It is King Richard’s pleasure that you die undegraded—without mutilation of your body, or shame to your arms—and that your head be severed from the trunk by the sword of the executioner.” “It is kind,” said the knight, in a low and rather submissive tone of voice, as one who received an unexpected favour; “my family will not then hear the worst of the tale—Oh, my father—my father!”

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This muttered invocation did not escape the blunt but kindlynatured Englishman, and he brushed the back of his large hand over his rough features, ere he could proceed. “It is Richard of England’s farther pleasure,” he said, at length, “that you have speech with a holy man, and I have met with a Carmelite friar, who may fit you for your passage—He waits only without, until you are in a habit of mind to receive him.” “Let it be instantly,” said the knight. “In this also Richard is kind. I cannot be more fit to see the good father at any time than now; for life and I have taken farewell, as two travellers who have arrived at the cross-way, where their roads separate.” “It is well,” said De Vaux, slowly and solemnly; “for it irks me somewhat to say that which sums my message. It is King Richard’s pleasure that you prepare for present death.” “God’s pleasure and the King’s be done,” replied the knight, patiently. “I neither contest the justice of the sentence, nor desire delay of the execution.” De Vaux began to leave the tent, but very slowly—paused at the door, and looked back on the youth, from whose aspect thoughts of the world seemed banished, as if he was composing himself into deep devotion. The feelings of the good English Baron were in general none of the most acute, and yet, on the present occasion, his sympathy overpowered him in an unusual manner. He came hastily back to the bundle of reeds on which the captive lay, took one of his fettered hands, and said, with as much softness as his rough voice was capable of expressing, “Sir Kenneth, thou art yet young—thou hast a father—my Ralph, whom I left training his little galloway-nag on the banks of the Irthing, may one day reach thy years—and, but for last night, would to God I saw his youth bear such promise as thine.—Can nothing be said or done in thy behalf?” “Nothing,” was the melancholy answer. “I have deserted my charge—the Banner intrusted to me is lost—When the headsman and block are prepared, the head and trunk are ready.” “Nay, then, God have mercy!” said De Vaux; “yet would I rather than my best horse I had taken that watch myself—there is mystery in it, young man, as a plain man may descry, though he cannot see through it.—Cowardice? pshaw! No coward ever fought as I have seen thee do.—Treachery! I cannot think traitors die in their treason so calmly. Thou hast been trained from thy post by some deep guile —some well-devised stratagem—the well-mimicked cry of some distressed maiden has caught thine ear, or the laughful look of some merry one has taken thine eye. Never blush for it, we have all been led aside by such gear. Come, I pray thee, make a clean conscience

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of it to me, instead of the priest—Richard is merciful when his mood is abated. Hast thou nothing to intrust to me?” The unfortunate knight turned his face from the kind warrior, and answered—“N      . ” And De Vaux, who had exhausted his topics of persuasion, arose and left the tent, with folded arms, and in melancholy deeper than he thought the occasion merited—angry even with himself, to find that so simple a matter as the death of a Scottish man could affect him so nearly. “Yet,” as he said to himself, “though the rough-footed knaves be our enemies in Cumberland, in Palestine one almost considers them as brethren.”

Chapter Three ’Tis not her sense—for sure, in that There’s nothing more than common; And all her wit is only chat, Like any other woman. Song

T       -     Berengaria, daughter of Sanchez, King of Navarre, and the Queen Consort of the heroic Richard, was accounted one of the most beautiful women of the period. Her form was slight, though exquisitely moulded. She was graced with a complexion not common in her country, a profusion of fair hair, and features so extremely juvenile, as to make her look several years younger than she really was, though in reality she was not above one and twenty. Perhaps it was under the consciousness of this extremely juvenile appearance, that she affected, or at least practised, a little childish humorousness, and wilfulness of manner, not unbefitting, she might suppose, a youthful bride, whose rank and age gave her a right to have her fantasies indulged and attended to. She was by nature perfectly good humoured, and if her due share of admiration and homage (in her opinion a very large one) was duly resigned to her, no one could possess better temper, or a more friendly disposition; but then, like all despots, the more power that was voluntarily yielded to her, the more she desired to extend her sway. Sometimes, even when all her ambition was gratified, she chose to be a little out of health, and a little out of spirits; and physicians had to toil their spirits to invent names for imaginary maladies, while her ladies racked their imagination for new games, new head-gear, and new court-scandal, to pass away those unpleasant hours, during which their own situation was scarce to be greatly envied. Their most

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frequent resource for diverting this malady was some trick, or piece of mischief, practised upon each other; and the good Queen, in the buoyancy of her reviving spirits, was, to speak truth, rather too indifferent whether the frolics thus practised were entirely befitting her own dignity, or whether the pain which those suffered upon whom they were inflicted, was not beyond the proportion of pleasure which she herself derived from them. She was confident in her husband’s favour, in her high rank, and in her supposed power to make good whatever such pranks might cost others—In a word, she gamboled with the freedom of a young lioness, who is unconscious of the weight of paws laid on those whom she sports with. The Queen Berengaria loved her husband passionately, but she feared the loftiness and roughness of his character, and as she felt herself not to be his match in intellect, was not much pleased to see that he would often talk with Edith Plantagenet in preference to herself, simply because he found more amusement in her conversation, a more comprehensive understanding, and a more noble cast of thoughts and sentiments than his beautiful consort exhibited. Berengaria did not hate Edith on this account, far less meditate her any harm; for, allowing for some selfishness, her character was, on the whole, innocent and generous. But the ladies of her train, sharpsighted in such matters, had for some time discovered, that a poignant jest at the expense of the Lady Edith, was a specific for relieving her Grace of England’s low spirits, and the discovery saved their imagination much toil. There was something ungenerous in this, because the Lady Edith was understood to be an orphan; and though she was called Plantagenet, and the Fair Maid of Anjou, and admitted by Richard to certain privileges only granted to the royal family, and held her place in the circle accordingly, yet few knew, and none acquainted with the Court of England ventured to ask, in what exact degree of relationship she stood to Coeur de Lion. She had come with Eleanor, the celebrated Queen Mother of England, and joined Richard at Messina, as one of the ladies destined to attend on Berengaria, whose nuptials then approached. Richard treated his kinswoman with much respectful observance, and the Queen made her her most constant attendant, and, even in despite of the petty jealousy which we have observed, treated her, generally, with suitable respect. The ladies of the household had, for a long time, no farther advantage over Edith, than might be afforded by an opportunity of censuring a less artfully disposed head attire, or an unbecoming kirtle; for the lady was judged to be inferior in these mysteries. The silent devotion of the Scottish Knight did not, indeed, pass

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unnoticed; his liveries, his cognizances, his feats of arms, his mottoes and devices, were nearly watched, and occasionally made the subject of a passing jest. But then came the pilgrimage of the Queen and her ladies to Engaddi, a journey which the Queen had undertaken under a vow for the recovery of her husband’s health, and which she had been encouraged to carry into effect by the Archbishop of Tyre for a political purpose. It was then, and in the chapel at that holy place, connected from above with a Carmelite nunnery, from beneath with the cell of the anchoret, that one of the Queen’s attendants remarked that secret sign of intelligence which Edith had made to her lover, and failed not instantly to communicate it to her mistress. The Queen returned from her pilgrimage enriched with this admirable recipe against dulness or ennui, and her train was at the same time augmented by a present of two wretched dwarfs from the dethroned Queen of Jerusalem, as deformed and as crazy, (the excellence of that unhappy species,) as any Queen could have desired. One of Berengaria’s idle amusements had been to try the effect of the sudden appearance of such ghastly and fantastic forms on the nerves of the Knight when left alone in the chapel, but the jest had been lost by the composure of the Scot, and the interference of the anchoret. She had now tried another, of which the consequence promised to be more serious. The ladies again met after Sir Kenneth had retired from the tent; and the Queen, at first little moved by Edith’s angry expostulations, only replied to her by upbraiding her prudery, and by indulging her wit at the expense of the garb, nation, and, above all, the poverty, of the Knight of the Leopard, in which she displayed a good deal of playful malice, mingled with some humour, until Edith was compelled to carry her anxiety to her separate apartment. But when, in the morning, a female, whom Edith had intrusted to make inquiry, brought word that the Standard was missing, and its champion vanished, Edith burst into the Queen’s apartment, and implored her to rise and proceed to the King’s tent without delay, and use her powerful mediation to prevent the evil consequences of her jest. The Queen, frightened in her turn, cast, as is usual, the blame of her own folly on those around her, and endeavoured to comfort Edith’s grief, and appease her displeasure, by a thousand inconsistent arguments. She was sure no harm had chanced—the knight was sleeping, she fancied, after his night-watch. What though, for fear of the King’s displeasure, he had deserted with the standard—it was but a piece of silk, and he but a needy adventurer—or if he was put under warding for a time, she would soon get the King to pardon him—it was but waiting to let Richard’s mood pass away.

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Thus she continued talking thick and fast, and heaping together all sort of inconsistencies, with the vain view of persuading both Edith and herself that no harm could come of a frolic, which in her heart she now bitterly repented. But while Edith in vain strove to interrupt this torrent of idle talk, she caught the eye of one of the ladies who entered the Queen’s apartment. There was death in her look of affright and horror, and Edith, at the first glance of her countenance, had sunk at once on the earth, had not strong necessity, and her own elevation of character, enabled her to maintain at least external composure. “Madam,” she said to the Queen, “lose not another word in speaking, but save life—if, indeed,” she added, her voice choking as she said it, “life may yet be saved.” “It may—it may,” answered the Lady Calista. “I have just heard that he has been brought before the King—it is not yet over—but,” she added, bursting into a vehement flood of weeping, in which personal apprehensions had some share—“it will soon—unless some course be taken.” “I will vow a golden candlestick to the Holy Sepulchre—a shrine of silver to our Lady of Engaddi—a pall, worth one hundred bezants, to Saint Thomas of Orthez,” said the Queen, in extremity. “Up, up, madam,” said Edith, “call on the saints if you list, but be your own best saint.” “Indeed, madam,” said the terrified attendant, “the Lady Edith speaks truth. Up, madam, and let us to King Richard’s tent, and beg the poor gentleman’s life.” “I will go—I will go instantly,” said the Queen, rising and trembling excessively; while her women, in as great confusion as herself, were unable to render her those duties which were indispensable to her levee. Calm, composed, only pale as death, Edith ministered to the Queen with her own hands, and alone supplied the deficiencies of her numerous attendants. “How ye wait, wenches,” said the Queen, not able even then to forget frivolous distinctions. “Suffer ye the Lady Edith to do the duties of your attendance?—Seest thou, Edith, they can do nothing —I shall never be attired in time. We will send for the Archbishop of Tyre, and employ him as a mediator.” “O no, no!” exclaimed Edith—“Go yourself, madam—you have done the evil, confer the remedy.” “I will go—I will go,” said the Queen; “but if Richard be in his mood, I dare not speak to him—he will kill me.” “Yet go, gracious Madam,” said the Lady Calista, who best knew her mistress’s temper; “not a lion in fury could look upon such a

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face and form, and retain so much as an angry thought—far less a love-true knight like the royal Richard, to whom your slightest word would be a command.” “Doest thou think so, Calista?” said the Queen. “Ah, thou little knowest—yet I will go—But see you here—What means this? You have bedizened me in green, a colour he detests. Lo you! let me have a blue kirtle, and—search for the ruby carcanet, which was part of the King of Cyprus’s ransom—it is either in the steel casket, or somewhere else.” “This, and a man’s life at stake!” said Edith, indignantly. “It passes human patience. Remain at your ease, madam—I will go to King Richard—I am a party interested—I will know if the honour of a poor maiden of his blood is to be so far tampered with, that her name shall be abused to train a brave gentleman from his duty, bring him within the compass of death and infamy, and make, at the same time, the glory of England a laughing-stock to the whole Christian army.” At this unexpected burst of passion, Berengaria listened with an almost stupified look of fear and wonder. But as Edith was about to leave the tent, she exclaimed, though faintly, “Stop her—stop her.” “You must, indeed, stop, dearest Lady Edith,” said Calista, taking her arm gently; “and you, royal madam, I am sure, will go, and without farther dallying—If the Lady Edith goes alone to the King, he will be dreadfully incensed, nor will it be one life that will stay his fury.” “I will go—I will go,” said the Queen, yielding to necessity; and Edith reluctantly halted to wait her movements. They were now as speedy as she could have desired. The Queen hastily wrapped herself in a large loose mantle, which covered all inaccuracies of the toilette, and, attended by Edith and her woman, and preceded and followed by a few officers and men-at-arms, she hastened to the tent of her lion-like husband.

Chapter Four Were every hair upon his head a life, And every life were to be supplicated By numbers equal to those hairs quadrupled, Life after life should out like waning stars Before the day-break—or as festive lamps, Which have lent lustre to the midnight revel, Are quench’d when guests depart— Old Play

T   of Queen Berengaria into the interior of Richard’s pavilion was withstood—in the most respectful and reverential

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manner indeed—but still withstood, by the chamberlains who watched in the outer tent. She could hear the stern command of the King from within, prohibiting their entrance. “You see,” said the Queen, appealing to Edith, as if she had exhausted all means of intercession in her power—“I knew it—the King will not receive us.” At the same time, they heard Richard speak to some one within, —“Go, speed thine office quickly, sirrah—for in that consists thy mercy—ten bezants if thou dealst on him at one blow.—And hark thee, villain, observe if his cheek loses colour, or his eye falters— mark me the smallest twitch of the features, or wink of the eye-lid— I love to know how brave souls meet death.” “If he sees my blade waved aloft without shrinking, he is the first ever did so,” answered a harsh deep voice, which a sense of unusual awe had softened into a sound much lower than its usual coarse tones. Edith could remain still no longer. “If your Grace,” said she to the Queen, “make not your own way, I make it for you—or if not for your Majesty, for myself, at least.—Chamberlains, the Queen demands to see King Richard—the wife to speak with her husband.” “Noble lady,” said the officer, lowering his wand of office, “it grieves me to gainsay you—but his Majesty is busied on matters of death and life.” “And we seek also to speak with him on matters of death and life,” said Edith.—“I will make entrance for your Grace.”—And putting aside the chamberlain with one hand, she laid hold on the curtain with the other. “I dare not gainsay her Majesty’s pleasure,” said the chamberlain, yielding to the vehemence of the fair petitioner; and as he gave way, the Queen found herself obliged to enter the apartment of Richard. The Monarch was lying on his couch, and at some distance, as awaiting his further commands, stood a man whose profession it was not difficult to conjecture. He was clothed in a jerkin of red cloth, which reached shortly below the shoulders, leaving the arms bare from about halfway above the elbow, and, as an upper garment, he wore, when about, as at present, to betake himself to his dreadful office, a coat or tabard without sleeves, something like that of a herald, made of dressed bull’s hide, and stained in the front with many a broad spot and speckle of dull crimson. The jerkin, and the tabard over it, reached the knee, and the nether stocks, or covering of the legs, were of the same leather which composed the tabard. A cap of rough skin served to hide the upper part of a visage, which, like that of a screech-owl, seemed desirous to conceal itself from

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light—the lower part of the face was obscured by a huge red beard, mingling with shaggy hair of the same colour. What features were seen were stern and misanthropical. The man’s figure was short, strongly made, with a neck like a bull, very broad shoulders, arms of a great and disproportioned length, a huge square trunk, and thick bandy legs. This truculent official leant on a sword, the blade of which was nearly four feet and a half in length, while the handle of twenty inches, surrounded by a ring of lead plummets to counterpoise the weight of such a blade, rose considerably above the man’s head, as he rested his arm upon its hilt, waiting for King Richard’s farther directions. On the sudden entrance of the ladies, Richard, who was then lying on his couch, with his face towards the entrance, and resting on his elbow as he spoke to his griesly attendant, flung himself hastily, as if displeased and surprised, to the other side, turning his back to the Queen and the ladies of her train, and drawing around him the coverings of his couch, which, by his own choice, or more probably the flattering selection of his chamberlains, consisted of two huge lions’ skins, dressed in Venice with such admirable skill that they seemed softer than the hide of the deer. Berengaria, such as we have described her, knew well—What woman knows not?—her own road to victory. After a hurried glance of undisguised and unaffected terror at the ghastly companion of her husband’s secret counsels, she rushed at once to the side of Richard’s lowly couch, dropped on her knees, flung her mantle from her shoulders, showing, as they hung down at their full length, her beautiful golden tresses, and while her countenance seemed like a sun bursting through a cloud, yet bearing on its pallid front traces that its splendours have been obscured, she seized upon the right hand of the King, which, as he assumed his averted posture, had been employed in dragging the covering of his couch, and gradually pulling it to her with a force which was resisted, though but faintly, she possessed herself of that arm, the prop of Christendom, and the dread of Heathenesse, and imprisoning its strength in both her little fairy hands, she bent upon it her brow, and united to it her lips. “What needs this, Berengaria?” said Richard, his head still averted, but his hand remaining under her control. “Send away that man—his look kills me,” muttered Berengaria. “Begone, sirrah,” said Richard, still without looking around— “What waitst thou for? art thou fit to look on these ladies?” “Your Highness’s pleasure touching the head,” said the man. “Out with thee, dog!” answered Richard—“a Christian burial!” The man disappeared, after casting a look upon the beautiful

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Queen, in her deranged dress and natural loveliness, with a smile of admiration more hideous in its expression, than even his usual scowl of cynical hatred against humanity. “And now, foolish child, what wishest thou?” said Richard, turning slowly and half reluctantly round to his royal suppliant. But it was not in nature for any one, far less an admirer of beauty like Richard, to whom it stood only in the second rank to fame, to look without emotion on the countenance and the tremor of a creature so beautiful as Berengaria, or to feel, without sympathy, that her lips, her brow, were on his hand, and that it was wetted by her tears. By degrees, he turned on her his manly countenance, with the softest expression of which his large full blue eye, which so often gleamed with insufferable light, was capable. Caressing her fair head, and mingling his large fingers in her beautiful and dishevelled locks, he raised and tenderly kissed the cherub countenance which seemed desirous to hide itself in his hand. The robust form, the broad, noble brow, and majestic looks, the naked arm and shoulder, the lions’ skins among which he lay, and the fair fragile feminine creature which kneeled by his side, might have served for a model of Hercules reconciling himself, after a quarrel, to his wife Dejanira. “And, once more, what seeks the lady of my heart in her knight’s pavilion, at this early and unwonted hour?” “Pardon, my most gracious liege, pardon,” said the Queen, whose fears began again to unfit her for the duty of intercessor. “Pardon! for what?” said the King. “First, for entering your royal presence too boldly and unadvisedly——” She stopped. “Thou too boldly!—the sun might as well ask pardon, because his rays entered the windows of some wretch’s dungeon. But I was busied with work unfit for thee to witness, my gentle one, and I was unwilling, besides, that thou shouldst risk thy precious health where sickness was so lately rife.” “But thou art now well?” said the Queen, still delaying the communication which she feared to make. “Well enough to break a lance on the bold crest of that champion, who shall refuse to acknowledge thee the fairest in Christendom.” “Thou wilt not then refuse me one boon—only one—only a poor life?” “Ha!—proceed,” said King Richard, bending his brows. “This unhappy Scottish knight—” said the Queen. “Speak not of him, madam,” said Richard, sternly; “he dies—his doom is fixed.”

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“Nay, my royal liege, and love, it is but a silken banner neglected —Berengaria will give thee another broidered with her own hand, and rich as ever dallied with the wind. Every pearl I have shall go to bedeck it, and with every pearl I will drop a tear of thankfulness to my generous knight.” “Thou knowst not what thou sayst,” said the King, interrupting her in anger—“Pearls! can all the pearls of the East atone for a speck upon England’s honour—all the tears that ever woman’s eye wept wash away a stain on Richard’s fame?—Go to, madam, know your place, and your time, and your sphere. At present we have duties in which you cannot be our partner.” “Thou hearest, Edith,” whispered the Queen, “we shall but incense him.” “Be it so,” said Edith, stepping forward.—“My lord—I, your poor kinswoman, crave you for justice rather than mercy; and, to the cry of justice, the ears of a monarch should be open at every time, place, and circumstance.” “Ha! our cousin Edith?” said Richard, rising and sitting upright on the side of his couch, covered with his long camiscia, or loose robe—“She speaks ever kinglike, and kinglike will I answer her, so she bring no request unworthy herself or me.” The beauty of Edith was of a more intellectual and less voluptuous cast than that of the Queen; but impatience and anxiety had given her countenance a glow, which it sometimes wanted, and her mien had a character of energetic dignity, that imposed silence for a moment even on Richard himself, who, to judge by his looks, would willingly have interrupted her. “My lord,” she said, “this good knight, whose blood you are about to spill, hath done, in his time, service to Christendom. He hath fallen from his duty, through a snare set for him in mere folly and idleness of spirit. A message sent to him in the name of one who— why should I not speak it?—it was in my own—induced him for an instant to leave his post—And what knight in the Christian camp might not have thus far transgressed at command of a maiden, who, poor howsoever in other qualities, hath yet the blood of Plantagenet in her veins?” “And you saw him, then, cousin?” replied the King, biting his lips to keep down his passion. “I did, my liege,” said Edith. “It is no time to explain wherefore— I am here neither to exculpate myself nor to blame others.” “And where did you do him such a grace?” “In the tent of her Majesty the Queen.” “Of our royal consort!” said Richard. “Now, by Heaven, by Saint

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George of England, and every other saint that treads its crystal floor, this is too audacious! I have noticed and overlooked this minion’s insolent admiration of one so far above him, and I grudged him not that one of my blood should shed from her high-born sphere such influence as the sun bestows on the world beneath—But, Heaven and earth! that you should have admitted him to an audience by night, in the very tent of our royal consort!—and dare to offer this as an excuse for his disobedience and desertion! By my father’s soul! Edith, thou shalt rue this thy life long in a monastery!” “My liege,” said Edith, “your greatness becomes tyranny. My honour, Lord King, is as little touched as yours, and my Lady the Queen can prove it if she think fit.—But I am not here to excuse myself or inculpate others—I ask you but to extend to one, whose fault was committed under strong temptation, that mercy, which even yourself, Lord King, must one day supplicate at a higher tribunal, and for faults, perhaps, less venial.” “Can this be Edith Plantagenet?” said the King, bitterly.—“Edith Plantagenet, the wise and noble!—Or is it some love-sick woman, who cares not for her own fame in comparison of the life of her paramour. Now, by King Henry’s soul! little hinders but I order his skull to be brought from the gibbet, and fixed as a perpetual ornament by the crucifix in thy cell!” “And if thou doest send it from the gibbet to be placed for ever in my sight,” said Edith, “I will say it is a relic of the good knight, cruelly and unworthily done to death by—(she checked herself)— by one of whom I shall only say, he should have known better how to reward chivalry.—Minion call’st thou him?” she continued, with increasing vehemence,—“He was indeed my lover, and a most true one—but never sought he grace from me by look or word—contented with such humble observance as men pay to the saints. And the good—the valiant—the faithful, must die for this!” “O, peace, peace, for pity’s sake,” whispered the Queen, “you do but offend him more.” “I care not,” said Edith; “the spotless virgin fears not the raging lion. Let him work his will on this worthy knight. Edith, for whom he dies, will know how to weep his memory—to me no one shall speak more of politic alliances, to be sanctioned with this poor hand. I could not—I would not—have been his bride living—our degrees were too distant. But death unites the high and the low—I am henceforward the spouse of the dead.” The King was about to answer with much anger, when a Carmelite monk entered the apartment hastily, his head and person muffled in the long mantle and hood of striped cloth of the coarsest texture,

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which distinguished his order, and, flinging himself on his knees before the King, conjured him, by every holy word and sign, to stop the execution, for the sake of Christendom and for his own. “Now, by both sword and sceptre!” said Richard, “the world are leagued to drive me mad!—fools, women, and monks, cross me at every step. How comes he to live still?” “My gracious liege,” said the monk, “I entreated of the Lord of Gilsland to stay the execution until I had thrown myself at your royal—” “And he was wilful enough to grant thy request,” said the King; “but it is of a piece with his wonted obstinacy—And what is it thou hast to say? Speak, in the fiend’s name!” “My lord, there is a mighty secret—but it rests under the seal of confession—I dare not tell or even whisper it—but I swear to thee by my holy order—by the habit which I wear—by the blessed Elias, our founder, even him who was translated without suffering the ordinary pangs of mortality—that this youth hath divulged to me a secret, which, if I might confide it to thee, would utterly turn thee from thy present bloody purpose in regard to him.” “Good father,” said Richard, “that I reverence the Church, witness the arms which I now wear for her sake. Give me to know this secret, and I will do what shall seem fitting in the matter. But I am no blind Bayard, to take a leap in the dark under the stroke of a pair of priestly spurs.” “My lord,” said the holy man, throwing back his cowl and upper vesture, and discovering under the latter a garment of goatskin, and from beneath the former a visage so wildly wasted by climate, fast, and penance, as to resemble rather the apparition of an animated skeleton than a human face, “for twenty years have I macerated this miserable body in the caverns of Engaddi, doing penance for a great crime—think you I, who am dead to the world, would contrive a falsehood to endanger my own soul, or that one, bound by the most sacred oaths to the contrary—one such as I, who have but one longing wish connected with earth, to wit, the rebuilding of our Christian Zion,—would betray the secrets of the confessional? Both are alike abhorrent to my very soul.” “So,” answered the King, “thou art that hermit of whom men speak so much? Thou art, I confess, like enough to those spirits which walk in dry places, but Richard fears no hobgoblins—And thou art he, as I bethink me, to whom the Christian princes sent this very criminal to open a communication with the Soldan, even while I, who ought to have been first consulted, lay on my sick-bed. Thou and they may content themselves—I will not put my neck into the

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loop of a Carmelite’s girdle—And, for your envoy, he shall die, the rather and the sooner that thou doest intercede for him.” “Now God be gracious to thee, Lord King!” said the hermit, with much emotion; “thou art setting that mischief on foot which thou wilt hereafter wish thou hadst stopped, though it had cost thee a limb. Rash, blinded man, yet forbear!” “Away, away!” said the King, stamping; “the sun has risen on the dishonour of England, and it is not yet avenged.—Ladies and priest, withdraw, if ye would not hear orders which would displease you; for by Saint George I swear.” “Swear not!” said the voice of one who had just then entered the pavilion. “Ha! my learned Hakim,” said the King; “come, I hope, to tax our generosity.” “I come to request instant speech with you—instant—and touching matters of deep interest.” “First look on my wife, Hakim, and let her know in you the preserver of her husband.” “It is not for me,” said the physician, folding his arms with an air of oriental modesty and reverence, and bending his eyes on the ground, “to look upon beauty unveiled, and armed in its splendours.” “Retire, then, Berengaria,” said the Monarch; “and, Edith, do you retire also;—nay, renew not your importunities—this I give to them, that the execution shall not be till high noon.—Go and be pacified—dearest Berengaria, begone.—Edith,” he added, with a glance which struck terror even into the courageous soul of his kinswoman, “go if you are wise.” The females withdrew, or rather hurried from the tent, rank and ceremony forgotten, much like a flock of wild-fowl huddled together, against whom the falcon has made a recent stoop. They returned from thence to the Queen’s pavilion, to indulge in regrets and recriminations, equally unavailing. Edith was the only one who seemed to disdain these ordinary channels of sorrow. Without a sigh, without a tear, without a word of upbraiding, she attended upon the Queen, whose weak temperament showed her sorrow in violent hysterical ecstasies, and passionate hypochondriac effusions, afterwards called fits of the mother, in the course of which Edith sedulously, and even affectionately, attended her. “It is impossible she can have loved this knight,” said Florice to Calista, her senior in attendance on the Queen’s person. “We have been mistaken; she is but sorry for his fate, as for a stranger who has come to trouble on her account.” “Hush, hush,” answered her more experienced, and more observ-

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ant comrade; “she is of that proud house of Plantagenet, who never own that a hurt grieves them. While they have themselves been bleeding to death, under a mortal wound, they have been known to bind up the scratches sustained by their more faint-hearted comrades.—Florice, we have done frightfully wrong; and, for mine own part, I would buy with every jewel I have that our fatal jest had remained unacted.”

Chapter Five This work desires a planetary intelligence, Of Jupiter and Sol; and those great spirits Are proud, fantastical. It asks great charges To entice them from the guiding of their spheres, To wait on mortals. Albumazar

T   followed the ladies from the pavilion of Richard, as shadow follows a beam of sunshine when the clouds are driving over the face of the sun. But he turned on the threshold, and held up his hand towards the King in a warning, or almost a menacing posture, as he said,—“Woe to him who rejects the counsel of the Church, and betaketh himself to the foul divan of the infidel! King Richard, I do not yet shake the dust from my feet and depart from thy encampment—the sword falls not—but it hangs but by a hair.— Haughty monarch, we shall meet again.” “Be it so, proud priest,” returned Richard, “prouder in thy goatskins than princes in purple and fine linen.” The hermit vanished from the tent, and the King continued, addressing the Arabian,—“Do the dervises of the East, wise Hakim, use such familiarity with their princes?” “The dervise,” replied Adonbec, “should be either a sage or a madman; there is no mean for him who wears the khirkhah,* who watches by night, and fasts by day. Hence, hath he either wisdom enough to bear himself discreetly in the presence of princes, or else, having no reason bestowed on him, he is not responsible for his own actions.” “Methinks our monks have adopted chiefly the latter character,” said Richard—“But to the matter.—In what can I pleasure you, my learned physician?” “Great King,” said the Hakim, making his profound Oriental obeisance, “let your servant speak one word, and yet live—I would remind thee that thou owest—not to me their humble instrument— * Literally the torn robe. The habit of the dervises is so called.

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but to the Intelligences, whose benefits I dispense to mortals, a life——” “And I warrant me thou wouldst have another in requital, ha?” interrupted the King. “Such is my humble prayer,” said the Hakim, “to the great Melec Ric—even the life of this good knight, who is doomed to die, and but for such fault as was committed by the Sultan Adam, surnamed Aboulbeschar, or the father of all men.” “And thy wisdom might remind thee, Hakim, that Adam died for it,” said the King, somewhat sternly, and then began to pace the narrow space of his tent, with some emotion, and to talk to himself. “Why, God-a-mercy—I knew what he desired so soon as ever he entered the pavilion—Here is one poor life justly condemned to extinction, and I, a king and a soldier, who have slain thousands by my command, and scores with my own hand, am to have no power on it, although the honour of my arms, of my house, of my very Queen, hath been attainted by the culprit—By Saint George, it makes me laugh!—By Saint Louis, it reminds me of Blondel’s tale of an enchanted castle, where the destined knight was withstood successively in his purpose of entrance by forms and figures the most dissimilar, but all hostile to his undertaking—No sooner one sunk than another appeared!—Wife—Kinswoman—Hermit— Hakim—each appears in the lists as soon as the other is defeated!— Why, there is one knight fighting against the whole melée of the tournament—ha! ha! ha!”—And Richard laughed aloud; for he had, in fact, begun to change his mood, his resentment being usually too violent to be of long endurance. The physician meanwhile looked on him with a countenance of surprise, not unmingled with contempt; for the eastern people make no allowance for these mercurial changes in the temper, and consider open laughter, upon almost any account, as derogatory to the dignity of men, and becoming only to women and children. At length the sage addressed the King, when he saw him more composed. “A doom of death should not issue from laughing lips.—Let thy servant hope that thou hast granted him this man’s life.” “Take the freedom of a thousand captives instead,” said Richard; “restore so many of thy countrymen to their tents and families, and I will give the warrant instantly. This man’s life can avail thee nothing, and it is forfeited.” “All our lives are forfeited,” said the Hakim, putting his hand to his cap. “But the Great Creditor is merciful, and exacts not the pledge rigorously or untimeously.” “Thou canst show me,” said Richard, “no special interest thou

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hast to come betwixt me and the execution of justice, to which I am sworn as a crowned King.” “Thou art sworn to the dealing forth mercy as well as justice,” said El Hakim; “but what thou seekst, great King, is the execution of thine own will—And for the concern I have in this request, know that many a man’s life depends upon thy granting this boon.” “Explain thy words,” said Richard; “but think not to impose upon me by false pretexts.” “Be it far from thy servant!” said Adonbec. “Know, then, that the medicine to which thou, Sir King, and many one beside, owest thy recovery, is a talisman, composed under certain aspects of the heavens, when the Divine Intelligences are most propitious. I am but the poor administrator of its virtues. I dip it in a cup of water, observe the fitting hour to administer it to the patient, and the potency of the draught works the cure.” “A most rare medicine,” said the King, “and a commodious! and, as it may be carried in the leech’s purse, would save the whole caravan of camels which they require to convey drugs and physicstuff—I marvel there is any other in use.” “It is written,” answered the Hakim, with imperturbable gravity, “abuse not the steed which hath borne thee from the battle. Know, that such talismans might indeed be framed, but rare has been the number of adepts who have dared to undertake the application of their virtue. Severe restrictions, painful observances, fasts, and penance, are necessary on the part of the sage who uses this mode of cure; and if, through neglect of these preparations, by his love of ease, or his indulgence of sensual appetite, he omits to cure at least twelve persons within the course of each moon, the virtue of the divine gift departs from the amulet, and both the last patient and the physician will be exposed to speedy misfortune, neither will they survive the year. I require yet one life to make up the appointed number.” “Go out into the camp, good Hakim, where thou wilt find amany,” said the King, “and do not seek to rob my headsman of his patients; it is unbecoming a mediciner of thine eminence to interfere with the practice of another.—Besides, I cannot see how delivering a criminal from the death he deserves, should go to make up thy tale of miraculous cures.” “When thou canst show why a draught of cold water should have cured thee, when the most precious drugs failed,” said the Hakim, “thou mayst reason on the other mysteries attendant on this matter. For myself, I am at present inefficient to the great work, having this morning touched an unclean animal. Ask, therefore, no farther

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question—it is enough, that by sparing this man’s life at my request, you will deliver yourself, great King, and thy servant, from a great danger.” “Hark thee, Adonbec,” replied the King, “I have no objection that leeches should wrap their words in mist, and pretend to derive knowledge from the stars; but when you bid Richard Plantagenet fear that a danger will fall upon him from some idle omen, or omitted ceremonial, you speak to no ignorant Saxon, or doting old woman who foregoes her purpose because a hare crosses the path, a raven croaks, or a cat sneezes.” “I cannot hinder your doubt of my words,” said Adonbec; “but yet, let my Lord the King grant that truth is on the tongue of his servant,—will he think it just to deprive the world, and every wretch who may suffer by the pains which so lately reduced him to that couch, of the benefit of this most virtuous talisman, rather than extend his forgiveness to one poor criminal? Bethink you, Lord King, that though thou canst slay thousands, thou canst not restore one man to health. Kings have the power of Satan to torment, sages that of Allah to heal—beware how thou hinderest the good to humanity, which thou canst not thyself render. Thou canst cut off the head, but not cure the aching tooth.” “This is over insolent,” said the King, hardening himself, as the Hakim assumed a more lofty, and almost a commanding tone. “We took thee for our leech, not for our counsellor, or consciencekeeper.” “And is it thus that the most renowned Prince of Frangistan repays benefit done to his royal person?” said the Hakim, exchanging the humble and stooping posture, in which he had hitherto solicited the King, for an attitude lofty and commanding. “Know, then,” he said, “that through every court of Europe and Asia—to Moslem and Nazarene—to knight and lady—wherever harp is heard and sword worn—wherever honour is loved and infamy detested—to every quarter of the world will I denounce the Melec Ric, as thankless and ungenerous; and even the lands—if there be any such as never heard of his renown—shall be acquainted with his shame!” “Are these terms to me, vile infidel!” said Richard, striding up to him in fury.—“Art weary of thy life?” “Strike!” said the Hakim; “thine own deed shall then paint thee more worthless than could my words, though each had an hornet’s sting.” Richard turned fiercely from him, folded his arms, traversed the tent as before, and then exclaimed, “Thankless and ungenerous?— as well be termed coward and infidel. Hakim, thou hast chosen thy

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boon; and though I had rather thou hadst asked my crown-jewels, yet I may not kinglike refuse thee. Take this Scot, therefore, to thy keeping. The provost will deliver him to thee on this warrant.” He hastily traced one or two lines, and gave them to the physician. “Use him as thy bond-slave, to be disposed of as thou wilt. Only, let him beware how he comes before the eyes of Richard. Hark thee— thou art wise—he hath been over bold among those in whose fair looks and weak judgments we trust our honour, as you of the East lodge your treasures in caskets of silver wire, as fine and as frail as the web of a gossamer.” “Thy servant understands the word of the King,” said the sage, at once resuming the reverent style of address in which he had commenced. “When the rich carpet is soiled, the fool pointeth to the stain—the wise man covers it with a mantle. I have heard my lord’s pleasure, and to hear is to obey.” “It is well,” said the King; “let him consult his own safety, and never appear in my presence more. Is there aught else in which I may do thee pleasure?” “The bounty of the King hath filled my cup to the brim,” said the sage; “yea, it hath been abundant as the fountain which rose amid the camp of the descendants of Israel, when the rock was stricken by the rod of Moussa Ben Amran.” “Ay, but,” said the King, smiling, “it required, as in the desert, a hard blow on the rock, ere it yielded its treasures. I would that I knew something to pleasure thee, which I might yield as freely as the natural fountain sends forth its waters.” “Let me touch that victorious hand,” said the sage, “in token, that if Adonbec el Hakim should hereafter demand a boon of Richard of England, he may do so, yet plead his command.” “Thou hast hand and glove upon it, man,” replied Richard; “only, if thou canst conveniently make up thy tale of patients without craving me to deliver from deserved punishment those in my danger, I will more willingly discharge my debt in some other form.” “May your days be multiplied—” answered the Hakim, and withdrew from the apartment after the usual deep obeisance. King Richard gazed after him as he departed, like one but halfsatisfied with what had passed. “Strange pertinacity,” he said, “in this Hakim, and a wonderful chance to interfere between that audacious Scot and the chastisement he has merited so richly—yet let him live—there is one brave man the more in the world.—And now for the Austrian.—Ho, is the Baron of Gilsland there without?” Sir Thomas de Vaux thus summoned, his bulky form speedily

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darkened the opening of the pavilion, while behind him glided as a spectre, unannounced, yet unopposed, the savage form of the hermit of Engaddi, wrapped in his goatskin mantle. Richard, without noticing his presence, called in a loud tone to the Baron, “Sir Thomas de Vaux, of Lanercost and Gilsland, take trumpet and herald, and go instantly to the tent of him whom they call Arch-Duke of Austria, and see that it be when the press of his knights and vassals is greatest around him, as is likely at this hour, for the German boar breakfasts ere he hears mass—Enter his presence with as little reverence as thou mayst, and impeach him, on the part of Richard of England, that he hath this night, by his own hand, or that of others, stolen from its staff the Banner of England. Wherefore, say to him our pleasure, that, within an hour from the time of thy speaking, he restore the said banner with all reverence—he himself and his principal barons waiting the whilst with heads uncovered, and without their robes of honour—And that, moreover, he pitch beside it, on the one hand, his own Banner of Austria reversed, as that which hath been dishonoured by theft and felony— and on the other, a lance, bearing the bloody head of him who was his nearest counsellor, or assistant, in this base injury—And say, that such our behests being punctually discharged, we will, for the sake of our vow, and the weal of the Holy Land, forgive his other forfeits.” “And how if the Duke of Austria deny all accession to this act of wrong and of felony?” said Thomas de Vaux. “Tell him,” replied the King, “we will prove it upon his body— ay, were he backed with his two bravest champions. Knightlike will we prove it, on foot or on horse, in the desert or in the field, time, place, and arms, all at his own choice.” “Bethink you of the peace of God and the Church, my liege lord,” said the Baron of Gilsland, “among those princes engaged in this holy crusade.” “Bethink you how to execute my commands, my liege vassal,” answered Richard, impatiently. “Methinks men expect to turn our purpose by their breath, as boys blow feathers to and fro—Peace of the Church!—who, I prithee, minds it?—The Peace of the Church, among crusaders, implies war with the Saracens, with whom the princes have made truce, and the one ends with the other. And, besides, see you not how every prince of them is seeking his own several ends?—I will seek mine also—and that is honour. For honour I came hither, and if I may not win it upon the Saracens, at least I will not lose a jot from any respect to this paltry Duke, though he were bulwarked and buttressed by every prince in the crusade.”

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De Vaux turned to obey the King’s mandate, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, the bluntness of his nature being unable to conceal that its tenor went against his judgment. But the hermit of Engaddi stepped forwards, and assumed the air of one charged with higher commands than those of a mere earthly potentate. Indeed, his dress of shaggy skins, his uncombed and untrimmed hair and beard, his lean, wild, and contorted features, and the almost insane fire which gleamed from under his bushy eyebrows, made him approach nearly to our idea of some seer of Scripture, who, charged with high mission to the sinful Kings of Judah or Israel, descended from the rocks and caverns in which he dwelt in abstracted solitude, to abash earthly tyrants in the midst of their pride, by discharging on them the blighting denunciations of Divine Majesty, even as the cloud discharges the lightnings with which it is fraught, on the pinnacles and towers of castles and palaces. Even in the midst of his most wayward mood, Richard respected the Church and its ministers, and though offended at the intrusion of the hermit into his tent, he greeted him with respect; at the same time, however, making a sign to Sir Thomas de Vaux to hasten on his message. But the hermit prohibited the baron, by gesture, look, and word, to stir a yard on such an errand; and, holding up his bare arm, from which the goat-skin mantle fell back in the violence of his action, he waved it aloft, meagre with famine, and wealed with the blows of the discipline. “In the name of God, and of the most holy Father, the vicegerent of the Christian Church upon earth, I prohibit this most profane, blood-thirsty, and brutal defiance, betwixt two Christian princes, whose shoulders are signed with the blessed mark under which they swore brotherhood. Woe to him by whom it is broken!—Richard of England, recall the most unhallowed message thou hast given to that baron—Danger and Death are nigh thee—the dagger is gleaming at thy very throat!——” “Danger and Death are playmates to Richard,” answered the monarch, proudly; “and he hath braved too many swords to fear a dagger.” “Danger and Death are near,” repeated the seer; and, sinking his voice to a hollow, unearthly tone, he added, “And after death the judgment!” “Good and holy father,” said Richard, “I reverence thy person and thy sanctity——” “Reverence not me!” said the hermit; “reverence sooner the vilest insect that crawls by the shores of the Dead Sea, and feeds upon its accursed slime. But reverence Him whose command I

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speak—Reverence Him whose sepulchre you have vowed to rescue —Revere the oath of concord which you have sworn, and break not the silver cord of union and fidelity with which you have bound yourself to your princely confederates.” “Good father,” said the King, “you of the Church seem to me to presume somewhat, if a layman may say so much, upon the dignity of your holy character. Without challenging your right to take charge of our conscience, methinks you might leave us the charge of our own honour.” “Presume?” repeated the hermit—“is it for me to presume, royal Richard, who am but the bell obeying the hand of the sexton—but the senseless and worthless trumpet, conveying the command of him who sounds it?—See, on my knees I throw myself before thee, imploring thee to have mercy on Christendom, on England, and on thyself.” “Rise, rise,” said Richard, compelling him to stand up; “it beseems not that knees, which are so frequently bended to the Deity, should press the ground in honour of man.—What danger awaits us, reverend father?—and when stood the power of England so low, that the noisy bluster of this new-made Duke’s displeasure should alarm her, or her monarch?” “I have looked forth from my mountain turret upon the starry host of heaven, as each in his midnight circuit uttered wisdom to another, and knowledge to the few who can understand their voice. There sits an enemy in thy House of Life, Lord King, malign at once to thy fame, and thy prosperity—an emanation of Saturn, menacing thee with instant and bloody peril, and which, but thou yield thy proud will to the rule of thy duty, will presently crush thee, even in thy pride.” “Away, away—this is heathen science,” said the King. “Christians practise it not—wise men believe it not.—Old man, thou dotest.” “I dote not, Richard—I am not so happy. I know my condition, and that some portion of reason is yet permitted me, not for my own use, but that of the Church, and the cause of the Cross. I am the blind man who holds a torch to others, though it yields no light to himself. Ask me touching what concerns the weal of Christendom, and the advancement of this crusade, and I will speak with thee as the wiliest counsellor on whose tongue persuasion ever sat. Speak to me of my own wretched being, and my words shall be those of the maniac outcast which I am.” “I would not break the bands of unity among the Princes of the Crusade,” said Richard, with a mitigated tone and manner. “But what atonement can they render me for the injustice and insult which I have sustained?”

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“Even of that I am prepared and commissioned to speak by the council, which, meeting hastily at the summons of Philip of France, have taken measures for that effect.” “Strange,” replied Richard, “that others should treat of what is due to the wounded Majesty of England!” “They are willing to anticipate your demands, if it be possible,” answered the hermit. “In a body, they consent that the Banner of England be replaced on Saint George’s Mount, and they lay under ban and condemnation the audacious criminal, or criminals, by whom it was outraged, and will announce a princely reward to any who shall denounce the delinquents’ guilt, and give their flesh to the wolves and ravens.” “And Austria,” said Richard—“upon him rest such strong presumptions that he was the author of this deed?” “To prevent discord in the host,” replied the hermit, “Austria will clear himself of the suspicion, by submitting to whatsoever ordeal the Patriarch of Jerusalem shall impose.” “Will he clear himself by the trial by combat?” said King Richard. “His oath prohibits it,” said the hermit; “and, moreover, the Council of the Princes”— “Will neither authorize battle against the Saracens,” said Richard, “nor against any one else. But it is enough, father—thou hast shown me the folly of proceeding as I designed in this matter—you shall sooner light your torch in a puddle of rain, as bring a spark out of a cold-blooded coward. There is no honour to be gained on Austria, so let him pass—I will have him perjure himself, however—I will insist on the ordeal—How I shall laugh to hear his clumsy fingers hiss, as he grasps the red-hot globe of iron!—Ay, or his huge mouth riven, and his gullet swelling to suffocation, as he endeavours to swallow the consecrated bread!” “Peace, Richard,” said the hermit—“Oh, peace, for shame, if not for charity. Who shall praise or honour princes, who insult and calumniate each other? Alas! that a creature so noble as thou art— so accomplished in princely thoughts and princely daring—so fitted to honour Christendom by thy actions, and, in thy calmer mood, to rule her by thy wisdom, should yet have the brute and onward fury of the lion, mingled with the dignity and courage of that king of the forest!” He remained an instant musing with his eyes fixed on the ground, and then proceeded.—“But Heaven, that knows our imperfect nature, accepts of our imperfect obedience, and hath delayed, though not averted, the bloody end of thy daring life. The destroying angel hath stood still, as of old by the threshing-floor of Araunah the

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Jebusite, and the blade is drawn in his hand, by which, at no distant date, Richard the Lion-hearted shall be as low as the meanest peasant.” “Must it then be so soon?”—said Richard. “Yet, even so be it. May my course be bright, if it be but brief!” “Alas! noble King,” said the solitary, and it seemed as if a tear (unwonted guest) were gathering in his dry and glazened eye— “short and melancholy, marked with mortification, and calamity, and captivity, is the space that divides thee from the grave which yawns for thee—a grave in which thou shalt be laid without lineage to succeed thee—without the tears of a people, exhausted by thy ceaseless wars, to lament thee—without having extended the territory of thy people—without having done aught to enlarge their happiness.” “But not without renown, monk—not without the tears of the lady of my love! These consolations, which thou canst not estimate, await upon Richard to his grave.” “Do I not know—can I not estimate, the value of minstrel’s praise, and of lady’s love!” retorted the hermit, in a tone, which for a moment seemed to emulate the enthusiasm of Richard himself. “King of England,” he continued, extending his emaciated arm, “the blood which boils in thy blue veins is not more noble than that which stagnates in mine. Few and cold as the drops are, they still are of the blood of the royal Lusignan—of the heroic and sainted Godfrey—I am—that is, I was when in the world—Alberick Mortemar——” “Whose deeds,” said Richard, “have so often filled Fame’s trumpet! Is it so—can it be so?—Could such a light as thine fall from the horizon of chivalry, and yet men be uncertain where its embers had alighted?” “Seek a fallen star,” said the hermit, “and thou shalt only light on some foul jelly, which, in shooting through the horizon, has assumed for a moment an appearance of splendour. Richard, if I thought that rending the bloody veil from my horrible fate could make thy proud heart stoop to the discipline of the Church, I could find in my heart to tell thee a tale, which I have hitherto kept gnawing at my vitals in concealment, like the self-devoted youth of heathenesse.—Listen, then, Richard, and may the grief and despair, which cannot avail this wretched remnant of what was once a man, be powerful as an example to so noble, yet so wild a being as thou art. Yes—I will—I will tear open the long-hidden wounds, although in thy very presence they should bleed to death.” King Richard, upon whom the history of Alberick of Mortemar

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had made an impression in his early years, when minstrels were regaling his father’s halls with legends of the Holy Land, listened with respect to the outlines of a tale, which, darkly and imperfectly sketched, indicated sufficiently the cause of the partial insanity of this singular and most unhappy being. “I need not,” he said, “tell thee, that I was noble in birth, high in fortune, strong in arms, wise in counsel. All this I was; but while the noblest ladies in Palestine strove which should wind garlands for my helmet, my love was fixed—unalterably and dotingly fixed—on a maiden of low degree. Her father, an ancient soldier of the Cross, saw our passion, and knowing the difference betwixt us, saw no other refuge for his daughter’s honour than the shadow of the cloister. I returned from a distant expedition, loaded with spoils and honour, to find my happiness was destroyed for ever! I too sought the cloister, and Satan, who had marked me for his own, breathed into my heart a vapour of spiritual pride, which could only have had its source in his own infernal regions. I had risen as high in the Church as before in the state—I was, forsooth, the wise, the selfsufficient, the impeccable—I was the counsellor of Councils—I was the director of prelates—how should I stumble—Wherefore should I fear temptation?—Alas! I became confessor to a sisterhood, and amongst that sisterhood I found the long-loved—the long-lost. Spare me farther confession!—A fallen nun, whose guilt was avenged by self-murder, sleeps soundly in the vaults of Engaddi, while, above her very grave, gibbers, moans, and raves a creature, to whom but so much reason is left as may suffice to render him completely sensible to his fate.” “Unhappy man!” said Richard. “I wonder no longer at thy misery. How didst thou escape the doom, which the canons denounce against thy offence?” “Ask one who is yet in the gall of worldly bitterness,” said the hermit, “and he will speak of a life spared for personal respects, and from consideration to high birth—But, Richard, I tell thee, that Providence hath preserved me, to lift me on high as a light and beacon, whose ashes, when this earthly fuel is burnt out, must yet be flung into Tophet. Withered and shrunk as this poor frame is, it is yet animated with two spirits—one active, shrewd, and piercing, to advocate the cause of the Church of Jerusalem—one mean, abject, and despairing, fluctuating between madness and misery, to mourn over my own wretchedness, and to guard holy relics, on which it would be most sinful for me even to cast my eye. Pity me not!—it is but sin to pity the loss of such an abject—pity me not, but profit by my example. Thou standest on the highest, and, therefore, on the

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most dangerous pinnacle, occupied by any Christian prince. Thou art proud of heart, loose of life, bloody of hand. Put from thee the sins which are to thee as daughters—though they be dear to the sinful Adam, expel these adopted furies from thy breast—thy pride, thy luxury, thy blood-thirstiness.” “He raves,” said Richard, turning from the solitary to De Vaux, as one who felt some pain from a sarcasm which yet he could not resent—then turned him calmly, and somewhat scornfully, to the anchoret, as he replied—“Thou hast found a fair bevy of daughters, reverend father, to one who hath been but few months married; but since I must put them from my roof, it were but like a father to provide them with suitable matches. Wherefore, I will part with my pride to the noble canons of the Church—my luxury, as thou callst it, to the monks of the Rule—and my blood-thirstiness to the Knights of the Temple.” “O, heart of steel, and hand of iron,” said the anchoret—“upon whom example, as well as advice, is alike thrown away!—Yet shalt thou be spared for a season, in case it so be thou shouldst turn and do that which is acceptable in the sight of Heaven.—For me, I must return to my place.—Kyrie Eleison!—I am he through whom the rays of heavenly grace dart like those of the sun through a burningglass, concentrating them on other objects, until they kindle and blaze, while the glass itself remains cold and uninflamed.—Kyrie Eleison!—the poor must be called, for the rich have refused the banquet—Kyrie Eleison!” So saying, he burst from the tent, uttering loud cries. “A mad priest!—” said Richard, from whose mind the fantastic exclamations of the hermit had partly obliterated the impression produced by the detail of his personal history and misfortunes. “After him, De Vaux, and see he comes to no harm; for, crusaders as we are, a juggler hath more reverence amongst our varlets than a priest or a saint, and they may, perchance, put some scorn upon him.” The knight obeyed, and Richard presently gave way to the thoughts which the wild prophecy of the monk had inspired.—“To die early —without lineage—without lamentation?—a heavy sentence, and well that it is not passed by a more competent judge. Yet the Saracens, who are accomplished in mystical knowledge, will often maintain, that He, in whose eyes the wisdom of the sage is but as folly, inspires wisdom and prophecy into the seeming folly of the madman. Yonder hermit is said to read the stars too, an art generally practised in these lands, where the heavenly host was of yore the object of idolatry. I would I had asked him touching the loss of my banner;

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for not the blessed Tishbite, the founder of his order, could seem more wildly rapt out of himself, or speak with a tongue more resembling that of a prophet.—How now, De Vaux, what news of the mad priest?” “Mad priest, call you him, my lord?” answered De Vaux. “Methinks he resembles more the blessed Baptist himself, just issued from the wilderness. He has placed himself on one of the military engines, and from thence he preaches to the soldiers, as never man preached since the time of Peter the Hermit. The camp, alarmed by his cries, crowd around him in thousands; and breaking off every now and then from the main thread of his discourse, he addresses the several nations, each in their own language, and presses upon each the arguments best qualified to urge them to perseverance in the delivery of Palestine.” “By this light, a noble hermit!” said King Richard. “But what else could come from the blood of Godfrey? He despair of spiritual safety, because he hath in former days lived par amours? I will have the Pope send him an ample remission, had his belle amie been an abbess.” As he spoke, the Archbishop of Tyre craved audience, for the purpose of requesting Richard’s attendance, should his health permit, on a secret conclave of the chiefs of the crusade, and to explain to him the military and political incidents which had occurred during his illness.

Chapter Six Must we then sheathe our still victorious sword? Turn back our forward step, which ever trode O’er foemen’s necks the onward path of glory? Unclasp the mail, which with a solemn vow, In God’s own house, we hung upon our shoulders; That vow, as unaccomplish’d as the promise Which village nurses make to still their children, And after think no more of?—— The Crusade, a Tragedy

T  Archbishop of Tyre was an emissary well chosen to communicate to Richard tidings, which from another voice the lion-hearted King would not have brooked to hear, without the most unbounded explosions of resentment. Even this sagacious and reverend prelate found difficulty in inducing him to listen to news, which destroyed all his hopes of gaining back the Holy Sepulchre by force of arms, and acquiring the renown, which the universal All Hail of Christendom was ready to confer upon him, as the Champion of the Cross.

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But, by the Archbishop’s report, it appeared that Saladin was assembling all the force of his hundred tribes, and that the monarchs of Europe, already disgusted from various motives with the expedition, which had proved so hazardous, and was daily growing more so, had resolved to abandon their purpose. In this they were countenanced by the example of Philip of France, who, with many protestations of regret, and assurances that he would first see his brother of England in safety, declared his intention to return to Europe. His great vassal, the Earl of Champagne, had adopted the same resolution; and it will not be wondered, that Leopold of Austria, affronted as he had been by Richard, was glad to embrace an opportunity of deserting a cause, in which his haughty opponent was to be considered as chief. Others announced the same purpose. So that it was plain that the King of England was to be left, if he chose to remain, supported only by such volunteers as might, under such depressing circumstances, join themselves to the English army; and by the doubtful aid of Conrade of Montserrat, and the military orders of the Temple, and of Saint John, who, though they were sworn to wage battle against the Saracens, were at least equally jealous of any European monarch achieving the conquest of Palestine, where, with short-sighted and selfish policy, they proposed to establish independent dominions of their own. It needed not many arguments to show Richard the truth of his situation; and, indeed, after his first burst of passion, he sat him calmly down, and with gloomy looks, head depressed, and arms folded on his bosom, listened to the Archbishop’s reasoning on the impossibility of his carrying on the crusade when deserted by his companions. Nay, he forbore interruption, even when the prelate ventured, in measured terms, to hint that Richard’s own impetuosity had been one main cause of disgusting the princes with the expedition. “Confiteor—” answered Richard, with a dejected look, and something of a melancholy smile; “I confess, reverend father, that I ought on some accounts to sing culpa mea. But is it not hard that my frailties of temper should be visited with such a penance, that, for a burst or two of natural passion, I should be doomed to see fade before me ungathered such a rich harvest of glory to God, and honour to chivalry?—But it shall not fade.—By the soul of the Conqueror, I will plant the Cross on the towers of Jerusalem, or they shall plant it over Richard’s grave!” “Thou mayst do it,” said the prelate, “yet not another drop of Christian blood be shed in the quarrel.” “Ah, you speak of compromise, Lord Prelate—but the blood of

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the infidel hounds must also cease to flow,” said Richard. “There will be glory enough,” replied the Archbishop, “in having extorted from Saladin, by force of arms, and by the respect inspired by your fame, such conditions, as at once restore the Holy Sepulchre, open the Holy Land to pilgrims, secure their safety by strong fortresses, and, stronger than all, assure the safety of the Holy City, by conferring on Richard the title of King Guardian of Jerusalem.” “How!” said Richard, his eyes sparkling with unusual light—“I— I—I the King Guardian of the Holy City! Victory itself, but that it is victory, could not gain more—scarce so much, when won with unwilling and disunited forces.—But Saladin still proposes to retain his interest in the Holy Land?” “As a joint sovereign, the sworn ally,” replied the Prelate, “of the mighty Richard—his relative—if it may be permitted—by marriage.” “By marriage!” said Richard, surprised, yet less so than the Prelate had expected. “Ha!—Ay—Edith Plantagenet. Did I dream this?— or did some one tell me? My head is still weak from this fever, and has been agitated—Was it the Scot, or the Hakim, or yonder holy hermit, that hinted such a wild bargain?” “The hermit of Engaddi, most likely,” said the Archbishop; “for he hath toiled much in this matter; and since the discontent of the princes has become apparent, and separation of their forces unavoidable, he hath had many consultations, both with Christian and Pagan, for arranging such a pacification, as may give to Christendom, at least in part, the objects of this holy warfare.” “My kinswoman to an infidel—Ha!” exclaimed Richard, as his eyes began to sparkle. The Prelate hastened to avert his wrath. “The Pope’s consent must doubtless be first attained, and the holy hermit, who is well known at Rome, will treat with the holy Father.” “How?—without our consent first given?” said the King. “Surely no,” said the Bishop, in a quiet and insinuating tone of voice; “only with and under your especial sanction.” “My sanction to marry my kinswoman to an infidel?” said Richard; yet he spoke rather in a tone of doubt than as distinctly reprobating the measure proposed. “Could I have dreamed of such a composition when I leaped upon the Syrian shore from the prow of my galley, even as a lion springs on his prey!—And now—But proceed—I will hear with patience.” Equally delighted and surprised to find his task so much easier than he had apprehended, the Archbishop hastened to pour forth before Richard the instances of such alliances in Spain—not without

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countenance from the Holy See—the incalculable advantages which all Christendom would derive from the union of Richard and Saladin, by a bond so sacred; and, above all, he spoke with great vehemence and unction on the probability that Saladin would, in case of the proposed alliance, exchange his false faith for the true one. “Hath the Soldan shown any disposition to become Christian?” said Richard; “if so, the king lives not on earth to whom I would grant the hand of a kinswoman, or a sister, sooner than to my noble Saladin—ay, though the one came to lay crown and sceptre at her feet, and the other had nothing to offer but his good sword and better heart.” “Saladin hath heard our Christian teachers,” said the Bishop, somewhat evasively,—“my unworthy self—and others—and as he listens with patience, and replies with calmness, it can hardly be but that he be snatched as a brand from the burning. Magna est veritas, et prævalebit. Moreover, the hermit of Engaddi, few of whose words have fallen fruitless to the ground, is possessed fully with the belief that there is a calling of the Saracens and the other heathen approaching, to which this marriage shall be matter of induction. He readeth the course of the stars; and dwelling, with maceration of the flesh, in those divine places which the saints have trodden of old, the spirit of Elijah the Tishbite, the founder of his blessed order, hath been with him as it was with the prophet Elisha, the son of Shaphat, when he spread his mantle over him.” King Richard listened to the Prelate’s reasoning with a downcast brow and a troubled look. “I cannot tell,” he said, “how it is with me; but methinks these cold counsels of the Princes of Christendom have infected me too with a lethargy of spirit. In the hour when I landed, full of ardent hopes, and burning for avenging God’s cause on the infidels, had a layman proposed such alliance to me, I had struck him to earth—if a churchman, I had spit at him as a renegade and priest of Baal—Yet now this counsel sounds not so strange in mine ear; for why should one not seek for brotherhood and alliance with a Saracen, brave, just, generous, who loves and honours a worthy foe as if he were a friend, whilst the Princes of Christendom shrink from the side of their allies, and forsake the cause of Heaven and good knighthood? —But I will possess my patience, and will not think of them—Only one attempt will I make to keep this gallant brotherhood together, if it be possible; and if I fail, Lord Archbishop, we will speak together of thy counsel, which, as now, I neither accept nor altogether reject. Wend we to the Council, my lord—the hour calls us. Thou sayest Richard is hasty and proud—thou shalt see him humble himself like

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the lowly broom-plant, from which he derives his surname.” With the assistance of those of his privy chamber, the King then hastily robed himself in a doublet and mantle of a dark and uniform colour; and without any mark of regal dignity, excepting a ring of gold upon his head, he hastened with the Archbishop of Tyre, to attend the Council, which waited but his presence to commence its sitting. The pavilion of the Council was a large tent, having before it the large Banner of the Cross displayed, and another, on which was pourtrayed a female kneeling, with dishevelled hair and disordered dress, meant to represent the desolate and distressed Church of Jerusalem, and bearing the motto, Afflictæ sponsæ ne obliviscaris. Warders, carefully selected, kept all at a distance from the neighbourhood of this tent, lest the debates, which were sometimes of a loud and stormy character, should reach other ears than they were designed for. Here, therefore, the Princes of the Crusade were assembled, awaiting Richard’s arrival; and even the brief delay which was thus interposed, was turned to his disadvantage by his enemies, and various instances were circulated of his pride and his undue assumption of superiority, of which even the present accidental delay was quoted as an instance. Men strove to fortify each other in their evil opinion, and vindicated the offence which each had taken, by putting the most severe construction upon circumstances the most trifling; and all this, perhaps, because they were conscious of an instinctive reverence for the King of England, which it would require more than ordinary efforts to overcome. They had settled accordingly, that they should receive him on his entrance with slight notice, and no more respect than was exactly necessary to keep within the bounds of cold ceremonial. But when they beheld that noble form, that princely countenance, somewhat pale from his late illness—the eye which had been called by minstrels the bright star of battle and victory—when his feats, surpassing human strength and valour, rushed on their recollection, they arose —even the jealous King of France, and the sullen and offended Duke of Austria, arose with one consent, and the assembled princes burst forth with one voice in the acclamation, “God save Richard of England!—Long life to the valiant Lion’s-heart!” With a countenance frank and open as the summer sun when it rises, Richard distributed his thanks around, and congratulated himself on being once more among his royal comrades. Some brief words he desired to say, such was his address to the assembly, though on a subject so unworthy as himself, even at the risk of

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delaying for a few minutes their consultations for the weal of Christendom, and advancement of their holy enterprize. The assembled princes resumed their seats, and there was a profound silence. “This day,” continued the King of England, “is a high festival of the Church; and well becomes it Christian men, at such a tide, to reconcile themselves with their brethren, and confess their faults to each other. Noble princes, and fathers of this holy expedition, Richard is a soldier—his hand is ever readier than his tongue—and his tongue is but too much used to the rough language of his trade. But do not, for Plantagenet’s hasty speeches and unconsidered actions, forsake the noble cause of the redemption of Palestine—do not throw away earthly renown and eternal salvation, to be won here if ever they can be won by man, because the act of a soldier may have been hasty, and his speech as hard as the iron which he has worn from childhood. Is Richard in default to any of you, Richard will make compensation both by word and action.—Noble brother of France, have I been so unlucky as to offend you?” “The Majesty of France has no atonement to seek from that of England,” answered Philip, with kingly dignity, accepting at the same time the offered hand of Richard. “And whatever opinion I may adopt concerning the prosecution of this enterprize, will depend on reasons arising out of the state of my own kingdom, certainly on no jealousy or disgust at my royal and most valorous brother.” “Austria,” said Richard, walking up to the Arch-Duke with a mixture of frankness and dignity, while Leopold rose from his seat, as if involuntarily, and with the action of an automaton whose motions depended upon some external impulse,—“Austria thinks he hath reason to be offended with England; England, that he hath cause to complain of Austria. Let them exchange forgiveness, that the peace of Europe, and the concord of this host, may remain unbroken. We are now joint supporters of a more glorious banner than ever blazed before an earthly prince, even the Banner of Salvation—let not, therefore, strife be betwixt us, for the symbol of our more worldly dignities; but let Leopold restore the pennon of England, if he has it in his power, and Richard will say that, though from no motive save his love for Holy Church, he repents him of the hasty mood in which he did insult to the standard of Austria.” The Arch-Duke stood still, sullen and discontented, with his eyes fixed on the floor, and his countenance lowering with smothered displeasure, which awe, mingled with awkwardness, prevented his giving vent to in words. The Patriarch of Jerusalem hastened to break the embarrassing silence, and to bear witness for the Arch-Duke of Austria, that he

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had exculpated himself, by a solemn oath, from all knowledge, direct or indirect, of the aggression done to the Banner of England. “Then we have done the noble Arch-Duke the greater wrong,” said Richard; “and craving his pardon for imputing to him an outrage so cowardly, we extend our hand to him in token of renewed peace and amity.—But how is this?—Austria refuses our uncovered hand, as he formerly refused our mailed glove. What! are we neither to be his mate in peace, nor his antagonist in war? Well, let it be so—We will take the slight esteem in which he holds us, as a penance for aught which we may have done against him in heat of blood, and will, therefore, hold the account between us cleared.” So saying, he turned from the Arch-Duke with an air rather of dignity than scorn, leaving the Austrian apparently as much relieved by the removal of his eye, as is a sullen and truant schoolboy when the glance of his severe pedagogue is withdrawn. “Noble Earl of Champagne—princely Marquis of Montserrat— valiant Grand Master of the Templars—I am here a penitent in the confessional—Does any of you bring a charge, or claim amends from me?” “I know not on what we could ground any,” said the smoothtongued Conrade, “unless it were that the King of England carries off from his poor brothers of the war all the fame which they might have hoped to gain in the expedition.” “My charge, if I am called on to make one,” said the Master of the Templars, “is graver and deeper than that of the Marquis of Montserrat. It may be thought to ill beseem a military monk such as I, to raise his voice where so many noble princes remain silent; but it concerns our whole host, and not least this noble King of England, that he should hear from some one to his face those charges, which there are enow to press him with in his absence. We laud and honour the courage and high achievements of the King of England, but we feel aggrieved that he should, on all occasions, seize and maintain a precedence and superiority over us, which it becomes not independent princes to submit to. Much we might yield of our free will to his bravery, his zeal, his wealth, and his power. But he who snatches all as matter of right, and leaves nothing to grant out of courtesy and favour, degrades us from allies into retainers and vassals, and sullies, in the eyes of our soldiers and subjects, the lustre of our authority, which is no longer independently exercised. Since the royal Richard has asked the truth from us, he must neither be surprised nor angry when he hears one, to whom worldly pomp is prohibited, and secular authority as nothing, saving so far as it advances the prosperity of God’s Temple, and the prostration of the

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lion which goeth about seeking whom he may devour—when he hears, I say, such a one as I tell him the truth in reply to his question; which truth, even while I speak it, is, I know, confirmed by the heart of every one who hears me, however respect may stifle their voices.” Richard coloured very highly while the Grand Master was making this direct and unvarnished attack upon his conduct, and the murmur of assent which followed it showed plainly, that almost all who were present acquiesced in the justice of the accusation. Incensed, and at the same time mortified, he yet foresaw that to give way to his headlong resentment, would be to give the cold and wary accuser the advantage over him which it was the Templar’s principal object to obtain. He, therefore, with a strong effort, remained silent till he had repeated a pater noster, being the course which his confessor had enjoined him to pursue, when anger was likely to obtain dominion over him. The King then spoke with composure, though not without an embittered tone, especially at the outset. “And is it even so? And are our brethren at such pains to note the infirmities of our natural temper, and the rash precipitance of our zeal, which may sometimes have urged us to issue commands when there was little time to hold council? I could not have thought that offences, casual and unpremeditated like mine, could find such deep root in the hearts of my allies in this most holy cause, that for my sake they should withdraw their hand from the plough when the furrow was near the end—for my sake turn aside from the direct path to Jerusalem, which their swords have opened—I vainly thought that my small services might have outweighed my rash errors—that if it were remembered that I pressed to the van in an assault, it should not be forgotten that I was ever the last in the retreat—that, if I elevated my banner upon conquered fields of battle, it was all the advantage that I sought, while others were dividing the spoil. I may have called the conquered city by my name, but it was to others that I yielded the dominion. If I have been headstrong in urging bold counsels, I have not, methinks, spared my own blood or my peoples’, in carrying them into as bold execution—or if I have, in the hurry of march or battle, assumed a command over the soldiers of others, such have been ever treated as my own, when my wealth purchased the provisions and medicines which their own sovereigns could not procure.—But it shames me to remind you of what all but I myself seem to have forgotten.—Let us rather look forward to our future measures; and believe me, brethren,” he continued, his face kindling with eagerness, “you shall not find the pride, or the wrath, or the ambition of Richard, a stumbling-block of offence in the path to

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which religion and glory summon you, as with the trumpet of an Archangel. Oh, no, no! never would I survive the thought, that my frailties and infirmities had been the means to sever this goodly fellowship of assembled princes. I would cut off my left hand with my right, could my doing so attest my sincerity. I will yield up, voluntarily, all right to command in the host, even mine own liege subjects. They shall be led by such strangers as you may nominate, and their King, ever but too apt to exchange the leader’s baton for the adventurer’s lance, will serve under the banner of Beau-Seant among the Templars—ay, or under that of Austria, if Austria will name a brave man to lead his forces. Or, if ye are yourselves a-weary of this war, and feel your armour chafe your tender bodies, leave but with Richard some ten or fifteen thousand of your soldiers to work out the accomplishment of your vow, and when Zion is won,” he exclaimed, waving his hand aloft, as if displaying the standard of the Cross over Jerusalem—“when Zion is won, we will write upon her gates not the name of Richard Plantagenet, but of those generous princes who intrusted him with the means of conquest.” The rough eloquence and determined expression of the military monarch, at once roused the drooping spirits of the crusaders, reanimated their devotion, and, fixing their attention on the principal object of the expedition, made most of them who were present blush for having been moved by such petty subjects of complaint as had before engrossed them. Eye caught fire from eye, voice lent courage to voice. They resumed, as with one accord, the war-cry with which the sermon of Peter the Hermit was echoed back, and shouted aloud, “Lead us on, gallant Lion’s-heart—none so worthy to lead where brave men follow. Lead us on—to Jerusalem—to Jerusalem! It is the will of God—it is the will of God! Blessed is he who shall lend an arm to its fulfilment!” The shout, so suddenly and generally raised, was heard beyond the ring of sentinels who guarded the pavilion of Council—it spread among the soldiers of the host, who, inactive and dispirited by disease and climate, had begun, like their leaders, to droop in resolution; but the re-appearance of Richard in renewed vigour, and the well-known shout which echoed from the assembly of the princes, at once rekindled their enthusiasm, and thousands and tens of thousands answered with the same shout of “Zion, Zion!—War, war!— instant battle with the infidels! It is the will of God—it is the will of God!” The acclamations from without increased in their turn the enthusiasm which prevailed within the pavilion. Those who did not actually catch the flame, were afraid, at least for the time, to seem colder

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than others. There was no more speech except of a present advance towards Jerusalem upon the expiry of the truce, and the measures to be taken in the meantime for supplying and recruiting the army. The Council broke up, apparently filled with the same enthusiastic purpose,—which, however, soon faded in the bosom of most, and never had an existence in that of others. Of the latter class were the Marquis Conrade and the Grand Master of the Templars, who retired together to their quarters ill at ease, and malcontent with the events of the day. “I ever told it to thee,” said the latter, with the cold sardonic expression peculiar to him, “that Richard would burst through the flimsy toils you pitch for him, as would a lion through a spider’s web. Thou seest he has but to speak, and his breath agitates these fickle fools as easily as the whirlwind catcheth scattered straws, and sweeps them together, or disperses them at its pleasure.” “When the blast has passed away,” said Conrade, “the straws, which it made dance to its pipe, will settle to earth again.” “But knowst thou not besides,” said the Templar, “that it seems, if this new purpose of conquest shall be abandoned and pass away, and each mighty prince shall again be left to such guidance as his own scanty brain can supply, yet Richard is still like to become King of Jerusalem by compact, and establish those terms of treaty with the Soldan, which thou thyself thoughtst him so likely to spurn at?” “Now, by Mahound and Termagaunt, for Christian oaths are out of fashion,” said Conrade, “sayst thou the proud King of England would unite his blood with a heathen Sultan?—My policy threw in that ingredient to make the whole treaty an abomination to him.— As bad for us that he become our master by an agreement, as by victory.” “Thy policy hath ill calculated Richard’s digestion,” answered the Templar; “I know his mind by a whisper from the Archbishop.— And then thy master-stroke respecting yonder banner—it has passed off with no more respect than two cubits of embroidered silk merited. Marquis Conrade, thy wit begins to halt—I will trust thy fine-spun measures no longer, but will try my own. Knowest thou not the people whom the Saracens call Charegites?” “Surely,” answered the Marquis; “they are desperate and besotted enthusiasts, who devote their lives to the advancement of religion— somewhat like Templars—only they are never known to pause in the race of their calling.” “Jest not,” answered the scowling monk; “know, that one of these men has set down, in his bloody vow, the name of the Island Emperor yonder, to be hewn down as the chief enemy of the Moslem faith.”

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“A most judicious paynim,” said Conrade. “Mahommed send him his paradise for a reward!” “He was taken in the camp by one of our squires, and, in private examination, frankly avowed his fixed and determined purpose to me.” “Now the heavens pardon them who prevented the purpose of this most judicious Charegite,” answered Conrade. “He is my prisoner,” added the Templar, “and secluded from speech with others, as thou mayst suppose—but prisons have been broken”— “Chains left unlocked, and captives have escaped—” answered the Marquis. “It is an ancient saying, no sure dungeon but the grave.” “When loose he resumes his quest—for it is the nature of this sort of bloodhound never to quit the slot of the prey he has once scented.” “Say no more of it,” said the Marquis; “I see thy policy—it is dreadful, but the emergency is imminent.” “I only told thee of it,” said the Templar, “that thou mayst keep thyself on thy guard, for the uproar will be dreadful, and there is no knowing on whom the English may vent their rage.” “Ay, and there is another risk—thy page knows the counsels of this Charegite—” “I see,” said the Templar; “and, moreover, he is a peevish, selfwilled fool, whom I would I were rid of, as he thwarts me by presuming to see with his own eyes, not mine. But our holy Order gives me power to put a remedy to such inconvenience. Or stay— the Saracen may find a good dagger in his cell, and I warrant you he uses it as he breaks forth, which will be of a surety so soon as the page enters with his food.” “It will give the affair a colour,” said Conrade; “and yet——” “Yet and but,” said the Templar, “are words for fools—wise men neither hesitate nor retract—they resolve and they execute.”

Chapter Seven R , the unsuspicious object of the dark treachery detailed in the closing part of the last chapter, having effected, for the present at least, the triumphant union of the crusading princes, in a resolution to prosecute the war with vigour, had it next at heart to establish tranquillity in his own family; and now that he could judge more temperately, to inquire distinctly into the circumstances leading to

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the loss of his banner, and the nature and extent of the connexion betwixt his kinswoman Edith, and the banished adventurer from Scotland. Accordingly, the Queen and her household were startled with a visit from Sir Thomas de Vaux, requesting the present attendance of the Lady Calista of Montgaillard, the Queen’s principal bowerwoman, upon King Richard. “What am I to say, madam?” said the trembling attendant to the Queen. “He will slay us all.” “Nay, fear not, madam,” said De Vaux. “His Majesty hath spared the life of the Scottish knight, who was the chief offender, and bestowed him upon the Moorish physician—he will not be severe upon a lady, though faulty.” “Devise some cunning tale, wench,” said Berengaria. “My husband hath too little time to make inquiry into the truth.” “Tell the tale as it really happened,” said Edith, “lest I tell it for thee.” “With humble permission of her Majesty,” said De Vaux, “I would say Lady Edith adviseth well; for although King Richard is pleased to believe what it pleases your Grace to tell him, yet I doubt his having the same deference for the Lady Calista, and in this especial matter.” “The Lord of Gilsland is right,” said the Lady Calista, much agitated at thoughts of the investigation which was to take place; “and, besides, if I had presence of mind enough to forge a plausible story, beshrew me if I think I would have the courage to tell it.” In this candid humour, the Lady Calista was conducted by De Vaux to the King, and made, as she had proposed, a full confession of the decoy by which the unfortunate Knight of the Leopard had been induced to desert his post; exculpating the Lady Edith, who, she was aware, would not fail to exculpate herself, and laying the full burthen on the Queen her mistress, whose share of the frolic, she well knew, would appear the most venial in the eyes of Coeur de Lion. In truth, Richard was a fond—almost an uxorious husband. The first burst of his wrath had long since passed away, and he was not disposed severely to censure what could not now be amended. The wily Lady Calista, accustomed from her earliest childhood to fathom the intrigues of a Court, and watch the indications of a sovereign’s will, hasted back to the Queen with the speed of a lapwing, charged with the King’s commands that she should expect a speedy visit from him; to which the bower-lady added a commentary founded on her own observation, tending to show that Richard meant just to preserve so much severity as might bring his royal

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consort to repentance of her frolic, and then to extend to her, and all concerned, his gracious pardon. “Sits the wind in that corner, wench?” said the Queen, much relieved by this information; “believe me, that, great commander as he is, Richard will find it hard to circumvent us in this matter; and that, as the Pyrenean shepherds are wont to say in my native Navarre, many a one comes for wool, and goes back shorn.” Having possessed herself of all the information which Calista could communicate, the royal Berengaria arrayed herself in her most becoming dress, and awaited with confidence the arrival of the heroic Richard. He arrived, and found himself in the situation of a prince entering an offending province, in the confidence that his business will only be to inflict rebuke, and receive submission, when he unexpectedly finds it in a state of complete defiance and insurrection. Berengaria well knew the power of her charms, and the extent of Richard’s affection, and felt assured that she could make her terms good so soon as the first tremendous explosion of his anger had expended itself without mischief. Far from listening to the King’s intended rebuke, as what the levity of her conduct had justly deserved, she extenuated, nay defended, as a harmless frolic, that which she was accused of. She denied, indeed, with many a pretty form of negation, that she had directed Nectanabus absolutely to entice the knight farther than the brink of the Mount on which he kept watch—and indeed this was so far true, that she had not designed Sir Kenneth to be introduced into her tent,—and then, eloquent in urging her own defence, the Queen was far more so in pressing upon Richard the charge of unkindness, in refusing her so poor a boon as the life of an unfortunate knight, who, by her thoughtless prank, had been brought within the danger of martial law. She wept and sobbed while she enlarged on her husband’s obduracy on this score, as a rigour which had threatened to make her unhappy for life, whenever she should reflect that she had given, unthinkingly, the remote cause for such a tragedy. The vision of the slaughtered victim would have haunted her dreams—nay, for aught she knew, since such things often happened, his actual spectre might have stood by her waking couch—To all this misery of the mind, was she exposed by the severity of one, who, while he pretended to dote upon her slightest glance, would not forego one act of poor revenge, though the issue was to render her miserable. All this flow of female eloquence was attended with the usual arguments of tears and sighs, and uttered with such tone and action, as seemed to show that the Queen’s resentment arose neither from

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pride nor sullenness, but from feelings hurt at finding her consequence with her husband less than she had expected to possess. The good King Richard was considerably embarrassed. He tried in vain to reason with one whose very jealousy of his affection rendered her incapable of listening to argument, nor could he bring himself to use the restraint of lawful authority to a creature so beautiful in the midst of her unreasonable displeasure. He was, therefore, fairly reduced to the defensive, endeavoured gently to chide her suspicions and soothe her displeasure, and recalled to her mind that she need not look back upon the past with recollections either of remorse or supernatural fear, since Sir Kenneth was alive and well, and had been bestowed by him upon the great Arabian physician, who, doubtless of all men, knew best how to keep him living. But this seemed the unkindest cut of all, and the Queen’s sorrow was renewed at the idea of a Saracen—a mediciner—obtaining a boon, for which, with bare head and on bended knee, she had petitioned her husband in vain. At this new charge Richard’s patience began rather to give way, and he said in a serious tone of voice, “Berengaria, the physician saved my life—if it is of value in your eyes, you will not grudge him a higher recompence than the only one I could prevail on him to accept.” The Queen was satisfied she had urged her coquettish displeasure to the verge of safety. “My Richard,” she said, “why brought you not that sage to me, that England’s Queen might show how she esteemed him who could save from extinction the lamp of chivalry, the glory of England, and the light of poor Berengaria’s life and hope?” In a word, the matrimonial dispute was ended; but, that some penalty might be paid to justice, both King and Queen accorded in laying the whole blame on the agent Nectanabus, who, (the Queen being by this time well weary of his humour,) was, with his royal consort Guenevra, sentenced to be banished from the Court; and the unlucky dwarf only escaped a supplementary whipping, from the Queen’s assurances that he had already sustained personal chastisement. It was decreed farther, that as an envoy was shortly to be dispatched to Saladin, acquainting him with the resolution of the Council to resume hostilities so soon as the truce was ended, and as Richard proposed to send a valuable present to the Soldan, in acknowledgment of the high benefit he had derived from the services of El Hakim, the two unhappy creatures should be added to it as curiosities, which, from their extremely grotesque appearance, and the shattered state of their intellect, were gifts which might well pass between sovereign and sovereign.

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Richard had that day yet another female encounter to sustain. But he advanced to it with comparative indifference, for Edith, though beautiful, and highly esteemed by her royal relative—nay, although she had from his unjust suspicions actually sustained the injury of which Berengaria only affected to complain—still was neither Richard’s wife nor mistress, and he feared her reproaches less, although founded in reason, than those of the Queen, though unjust and fantastical. Having requested to speak with her apart, he was ushered into her apartment, adjoining that of the Queen, whose two female Coptish slaves remained on their knees in the most remote corner during the whole interview. A thin black veil extended its ample folds over the tall and graceful person of the high-born maiden, and she wore not upon her person any female ornament of what kind soever. She arose and made a low reverence when Richard entered, resumed her seat at his command, and, when he sat down beside her, waited, without uttering a syllable, until he should communicate his pleasure. Richard, whose custom it was to be familiar with Edith, as their relationship authorized, felt this reception chilling, and opened the conversation with some embarrassment. “Our fair cousin,” he at length said, “is angry with us; and we own that strong circumstances have induced us, without cause, to suspect her of conduct alien to what we have ever known in her course of life. But while we walk in this misty valley of humanity, men will mistake shadows for substances. Can my fair cousin not forgive her somewhat vehement kinsman, Richard?” “Who can refuse forgiveness to Richard,” answered Edith, “providing Richard can obtain pardon of the King? ” “Come, my kinswoman,” replied Coeur de Lion, “this is all too solemn. By Our Lady, such a melancholy countenance!—And this ample sable veil might make men think thou wert a new-made widow, or had lost a betrothed lover, at least. Cheer up—thou hast heard doubtless that there is no real cause for woe—why then keep up the form of mourning?” “For the departed honour of Plantagenet—for the glory which hath left my father’s house.” Richard frowned.—“Departed honour! glory which hath left our house!”—he repeated, angrily; “but my cousin Edith is privileged —I have judged her too hastily, she has therefore a right to deem of me too harshly. But tell me at least in what I have faulted.” “Plantagenet,” said Edith, “should have either pardoned an offence, or punished it. It misbecomes him to consign free men, Christians, and brave knights, to the fetters of the infidels. It becomes

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him not to compromise and barter, or to grant life under the forfeiture of liberty. To have doomed the unfortunate to death might have been severity, but had a show of justice—to condemn him to slavery and exile, was barefaced tyranny.” “I see, my fair cousin,” said Richard, “you are one of those pretty ones who think an absent lover is equal to none, or to a dead one. Be patient; half a score of light horsemen may yet follow and redeem the error, if thy lover have in keeping any secret which might render his death more convenient than his banishment.” “Peace with thy scurril jests!” answered Edith, colouring deeply —“Think rather, that, for the indulgence of thy mood, thou hast lopped from this great enterprize one goodly limb, deprived the Cross of one of its most brave supporters, and placed a servant of the true God in the bonds of the heathen—hast given, too, to minds as suspicious as thou hast shown thine own in this matter, some right to say that Richard Coeur de Lion banished the bravest soldier in his camp, lest his name in battle might match his own.” “I—I!” exclaimed Richard, now indeed greatly moved—“am I one to be jealous of renown?—I would he were here to profess such an equality! I would waive my rank and my crown, and meet him, manlike, in the lists, that it might appear whether Richard Plantagenet had room to fear or to envy the prowess of mortal man. Come, Edith, thou thinkst not as thou sayest. Let not anger or grief for the absence of thy lover, make thee unjust to thy kinsman, who, notwithstanding all thy tetchiness, values thy good report as high as that of any one living.” “The absence of my lover?” said the Lady Edith. “But yes—he may be well termed my lover, who hath paid so dear for the title. Unworthy as I might be of such homage, I was to him like a light, leading him forward in the noble path of chivalry; but that I forgot my rank, or that he presumed beyond his, is false, were a king to speak it.” “Come, my fair cousin,” said Richard, “do not put words in my mouth which I have not spoken. I never said you had graced this man beyond the favour which a good knight may earn, even from a princess, whatever be his native condition. But, by Our Lady, I know something of this same love-gear—it begins with mute respect, and distant reverence; but, when opportunities occur, familiarity increases, and so—But it skills not talking with one who thinks herself wiser than all the world.” “My kinsman’s counsels I willingly listen to, when they are such,” said Edith, “as convey no insult to my rank and character.”

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“Kings, my fair cousin, do not counsel, but rather command,” said Richard. “Soldans do indeed command,” said Edith, “but it is because they have slaves to govern.” “Come, you might learn to lay aside this scorn of Soldanrie, when you hold so high opinion of a Scot,” said the King. “I hold Saladin to be truer to his word than this William of Scotland, who must needs be called a Lion, forsooth—he hath foully faulted towards me, in failing to send the auxiliary aid he promised. Let me tell thee, Edith, thou mayst live to prefer a true Turk to a false Scot.” “No—never—” answered Edith, “nor should Richard himself embrace the false religion, which he crossed the seas to expel from Palestine.” “Thou wilt have the last word,” said Richard, “and thou shalt have it. E’en think of me what thou wilt, pretty Edith. I shall not forget that thy father was my brother.” So saying, he took his leave in fair fashion, but very little satisfied with the result of his visit. It was the fourth day after Sir Kenneth had been dismissed from the camp, and King Richard sat in his pavilion, enjoying an evening breeze from the west, which, with unusual coolness on her wings, seemed breathed from merry England for the refreshment of her adventurous monarch, as he was gradually recovering the full strength which was necessary to carry on his gigantic projects. There was no one with him, De Vaux having been sent to Ascalon to bring up reinforcements and supplies of military munition, and most of his other attendants being occupied in different departments, all preparing for the reopening of hostilities, and for a grand preparatory review of the army of the crusaders, which weapon-show was to take place the next day. The King sat, listening to the busy hum among the soldiery, the clatter from the forges, where horse-shoes were preparing, and from the tents of the armourers, who were repairing harness—the voice of the soldiers too, as they passed and repassed, was loud and cheerful, carrying with its very tone an assurance of high and excited courage, and an omen of approaching victory. While Richard’s ear drank in these sounds with delight, and while he yielded himself to the visions of conquest and of glory which they suggested, an equerry told him that a messenger from Saladin waited without. “Admit him instantly,” said the King, “and with due honour, Joseline.” The English knight accordingly introduced a person, apparently of no higher rank than a Nubian slave, whose appearance was

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nevertheless highly interesting. He was of superb stature and nobly formed, and his commanding features, although almost jet-black, showed nothing of negro descent. He wore over his coal-black locks a milk-white turban, and over his shoulders a short mantle of the same colour, open in front and at the sleeves, under which appeared a doublet of dressed leopard’s skin reaching within a hand’s-breadth of the knee. The rest of his muscular limbs, both legs and arms, were bare, excepting that he had sandals on his feet, and wore a collar and bracelets of silver. A straight broadsword, with a handle of boxwood, and a sheath covered with snake-skin, was suspended from his waist; in his right hand he held a short javelin, with a broad, bright, steel head, of a span in length, and in his left he led, by a leash of twisted silk and gold, a large and noble staghound. The messenger prostrated himself, at the same time partially uncovering his shoulders, in sign of humiliation, and having touched the earth with his forehead, arose so far as to rest on one knee, while he delivered to the King a silken napkin, enclosing another of cloth of gold, within which was a letter from Saladin in the original Arabic, with a translation into Norman-English, which may be modernized thus:— “Saladin, King of Kings, to Melec Ric, the Lion of England. Whereas, we are informed by thy last message, that thou hast chosen war rather than peace, and our enmity rather than our friendship, we account thee as one blinded in this matter, and trust shortly to convince thee of thy error, by the help of our invincible forces of the thousand tribes, when Mahommed, the Prophet of God, and Allah, the God of the Prophet, shall judge the controversy betwixt us. In what remains, we make noble account of thee, and of the gifts which thou hast sent us, and of the two dwarfs, singular in their deformity as Ysop, and mirthful as the lute of Isaack. And in requital of these tokens from the treasure-house of thy bounty, behold we have sent thee a Nubian slave, named Zohauk, of whom judge not by his complexion, according to the foolish ones of the earth, in respect the dark-rinded fruit hath the most exquisite flavour. Know that he is as strong to execute the will of his master, as Rustan of Zablestan—also he is wise to give counsel when thou shalt learn to hold communication with him, for the Lord of Speech hath been stricken with silence betwixt the ivory walls of his palace. We commend him to thy care, hoping the hour may not be distant when he may render thee good service. And herewith we bid thee farewell, trusting that our most holy Prophet may yet call thee to a sight of the truth; failing which illumination, our desire is for the speedy restoration of thy royal health, that Allah may judge between

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thee and us in a plain field of battle.” And the missive was sanctioned by the signature and seal of the Soldan. Richard surveyed the Nubian in silence as he stood before him, his looks bent upon the ground, his arms folded on his bosom, with the appearance of a black marble statue of the most exquisite workmanship, waiting life from the touch of a Prometheus. The King of England, who, as it was emphatically said of his successor Henry the Eighth, loved to look upon   , was well pleased with the thewes, sinews, and symmetry of him whom he now surveyed, and questioned him in the lingua franca, “Art thou a pagan?” The slave shook his head, and raising his finger to his brow, crossed himself in token of his Christianity, then resumed his posture of motionless humility. “A Nubian Christian, doubtless,” said Richard, “and mutilated of the organ of speech by these heathen dogs?” The mute again slowly shook his head, in token of negation, pointed with his fore-finger to Heaven, and then laid it upon his own lips. “I understand thee,” said Richard; “thou doest suffer under the infliction of God, not by the cruelty of man. Canst thou clean an armour and belt, and buckle it in time of need?” The mute nodded, and stepping towards the coat of mail, which hung with the shield and helmet of the chivalrous Monarch, upon the pillar of the tent, he handled it with such nicety of address, as sufficiently to show that he fully understood the business of the armour-bearer. “Thou art an apt, and wilt doubtless be an useful knave—thou shalt wait in my chamber, and on my person,” said the King, “to show how much I value the gift of the royal Soldan. If thou hast no tongue, it follows thou canst carry no tales, neither provoke me to be sudden by any unfit reply.” The Nubian again prostrated himself till his brow touched the earth, then stood erect, at some paces distant, as waiting for his new master’s commands. “Nay, thou shalt commence thy office presently,” said Richard, “for I see a speck of rust darkening on that shield; and when I shake it in the face of Saladin, it should be bright and unsullied as the Soldan’s own honour.” A horn was winded without, and presently Sir Henry Neville entered with a packet of dispatches.—“From England, my lord,” he said, as he delivered it. “From England—our own England!” repeated Richard, in a tone

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of melancholy enthusiasm—“Alas! they little think how hard their Sovereign has been bestad by sickness and sorrow—faint friends and forward enemies.” Then opening the dispatches, he said, hastily, “Ha! this comes from no peaceful land—they too have their feuds. —Neville, begone—I must peruse these tidings alone, and at leisure.” Neville withdrew accordingly, and Richard was soon absorbed in the melancholy details which had been conveyed to him from England, concerning the factions which were tearing to pieces his native dominions—the disunion of his brothers, John and Geoffrey, and the quarrels of both with the High Justiciary Longchamp, Bishop of Ely,—the oppressions practised by the nobles upon the peasantry, and rebellion of the latter against their masters, which had produced everywhere scenes of discord, and in some instances the effusion of blood. Details of incidents mortifying to his pride, and derogatory from his authority, were intermingled with the earnest advice of his wisest and most attached counsellors, that he should presently return to England, as his presence offered the only hope of saving the kingdom from all the horrors of civil discord, of which France and Scotland were supposed likely to avail themselves. Filled with the most painful anxiety, Richard read, and again read, the ill-omened letters, compared the intelligence which some contained with the same facts as differently stated in others, and soon became totally insensible to whatever was passing around him, although seated, for the sake of coolness, close to the entrance of his tent, and having the curtains withdrawn, so that he could see and be seen by the guards and others who were stationed without. Deeper in the shadow of the pavilion, and busied with the task his new master had imposed, sat the Nubian slave, with his back rather turned towards the King. He had finished adjusting and cleaning the hauberk and brigandine, and was now busily employed on a broad pavesse, or buckler, of unusual size, and covered with steelplating, which Richard often used in reconnoitering, or actually storming fortified places, as a more effectual protection against missile weapons, than the narrow triangular shield used on horseback. This pavesse bore neither the royal lions of England, nor any other device, to attract the observation of the defenders of the walls against which it was advanced; the care, therefore, of the armourer was addressed to causing its surface to shine as bright as crystal, in which he seemed to be peculiarly successful. Beyond the Nubian, and scarce visible from without, lay the large dog, which might be termed his brother slave, and which, as if he felt awed by being transferred to a royal owner, was couched close to the side of the mute, with head and ears on the ground, and his limbs and tail

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drawn close around and under him. While the Monarch and his new attendant were thus occupied, another actor crept upon the scene, and mingled among the group of English yeomen, about a score of whom, respecting the unusually pensive posture and close occupation of their sovereign, were, contrary to their wont, keeping a silent guard in front of his tent. It was not, however, more vigilant than usual. Some were playing at games of hazard with small pebbles, others spoke together in whispers of the approaching day of battle, and several lay asleep, their bulky limbs folded in their green mantles. Amid these careless warders glided the puny form of a little old Turk, poorly dressed like a marabout or santon of the desert, a sort of enthusiasts, who sometimes ventured into the camp of the crusaders, though treated always with contumely, and often with violence. Indeed, the luxury and profligate indulgence of the Christian leaders had occasioned a motley concourse in their tents of musicians, courtezans, Jewish merchants, Copts, Turks, and all the varied refuse of the Eastern nations, so that the caftan and turban, though to drive both from the Holy Land was the professed object of the expedition, was nevertheless neither an uncommon nor an alarming sight in the camp of the crusaders. When, however, the little insignificant figure we have described approached so nigh as to receive some interruption from the warders, he dashed his dusky green turban from his head, showed that his beard and eyebrows were shaved like those of a professed buffoon, and that the expression of his fantastic and writhen features, as well as of his little black eyes, which glittered like jet, was that of a crazed imagination. “Dance, marabout,” cried the soldiers, acquainted with the manners of these wandering enthusiasts—“dance, or we will scourge thee with our bow-strings, till thou spin as never top did under schoolboy’s lash.”—Thus shouted the reckless warders, as much delighted at having a subject to teaze, as a child when he catches a butterfly, or a schoolboy upon discovering a bird’s nest. The marabout, as if happy to do their pleasure, bounded from the earth, and spun his giddy round before them with singular agility, which, when contrasted with his slight and wasted figure and diminutive appearance, made him resemble a withered leaf birled round and around at the pleasure of the winter’s breeze. His single lock of hair streamed upwards from his bald and shaven head, as if some genie upheld him by it; and indeed it seemed as if supernatural art were necessary to the execution of the wild whirling dance, in which scarce the tiptoe of the performer was seen to touch the ground. Amid the vagaries of his performance, he flew here and there, from

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one spot to another, still approaching, however, though almost imperceptibly, to the entrance of the royal tent; so that, when at length he sunk exhausted on the earth, after two or three bounds still higher than those which he had yet executed, he was not above thirty yards from the King’s person. “Give him water,” said one yeoman; “they always crave a drink after their merry-go-round.” “Aha, water, sayst thou, Long Allen?—” said another archer, in reply; “how wouldst like such beverage thyself, after such a morrice dancing?” “The devil a water-drop he gets here,” said a third. “We will teach the light-footed old infidel to be a good Christian, and drink wine of Cyprus.” “Ay, ay,” said a fourth; “and in case he be restive, fetch thou Dick Hunter’s horn, that he drenches his mare withal.” A circle was instantly formed around the prostrate and exhausted dervise, and while one tall yeoman raised his feeble form from the ground, another presented to him a huge flagon of wine. Incapable of speech, the old man shook his head, and waved away from him with his hand the liquor forbidden by the Prophet; but his tormentors were not thus to be appeased. “The horn, the horn!” exclaimed one. “Little difference between a Turk and a Turkish horse, and we will use him conforming.” “By Saint George, you will choke him!” said Long Allen; “and, besides, it is a sin to throw away upon a heathen dog as much wine as would serve a good Christian for a treble night-cap.” “Thou knowst not the nature of these Turks and pagans, Long Allen,” replied Henry Woodstall; “I tell thee, man, that this flagon of Cyprus will set his brains a-spinning, just in the opposite direction that they went whirling in the dancing, and so bring him, as it were, to himself again.—Choke? he will no more choke on it than Ben’s black bitch on the pound of butter.” “And for grudging it,” said Tomalin Blacklees, “why shouldst thou grudge the poor paynim devil a drop of drink on earth, since thou knowst he is not to have a drop to cool the tip of his tongue through a long eternity.” “That were hard laws, look ye,” said Long Allen, “only for being a Turk, as his father was before him. Had he been Christian turned heathen, I grant thee the hottest corner had been good winter quarters for him.” “Hold thy peace, Long Allen,” said Henry Woodstall; “I tell thee that tongue of thine is not the shortest limb about thee, and I prophesy that it will bring thee into disgrace with Father Francis, as

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once about the black-eyed Syrian wench.—But here comes the horn.—Be active a bit, man, wilt thou, and just force open his teeth with the haft of thy dudgeon dagger.” “Hold, hold—he is conformable,” said Tomalin—“See, see, he signs for the goblet—give him room, boys. Oop sey es, quoth the Dutchman—down it goes like lambs-wool! Nay, they are true topers when once they begin—your Turk never coughs in his cup, or stints in his liquoring.” In fact, the dervise, or whatever he was, drank, or at least seemed to drink, the large flagon to the very bottom at a single pull; and when he took it from his lips, after the whole contents were exhausted, only uttered, with a deep sigh, the words Allah kerim, or God is merciful. There was a laugh among the yeomen who witnessed this pottle-deep potation, so obstreperous as to rouse and disturb the King, who, raising his finger, said, angrily, “How, knaves, no respect? —no observance?” All were at once hushed into silence, well acquainted with the temper of Richard, which, at some times, admitted of much military familiarity, and at others exacted the most precise respect, although the latter humour was of much more rare occurrence. Hastening to a more reverent distance from the royal person, they attempted to drag along with them the marabout, who, exhausted apparently by previous fatigue, or overpowered by the potent draught he had just swallowed, resisted being moved from the spot, both with struggles and groans. “Leave him still, ye fools,” whispered Long Allen to his mates; “by Saint Christopher, you will make our Dickon go beside himself, and we shall have his dagger presently fly at our costards. Leave him alone, in less than a minute he will sleep like a dormouse.” At the same moment, the Monarch darted another impatient glance to the spot, and all retreated in haste, leaving the dervise on the ground, unable, as it seemed, to stir a single limb or joint of his body. In a moment afterward, all was as still and quiet as it had been before the intrusion.

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Chapter Eight —— and wither’d Murder, Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. Macbeth

F     of a quarter of an hour, or longer, after the incident narrated, all remained perfectly quiet in the front of the royal habitation. The King read, and mused in the entrance of his pavilion—behind, and with his back turned to the same entrance, the Nubian slave still burnished the ample pavesse—in front of all, at an hundred paces distant, the yeomen of the guard stood, sat, or lay extended on the grass, attentive to their own sports, but pursuing them in silence, while on the esplanade betwixt them and the front of the tent, lay, scarcely distinguished from a bundle of rags, the senseless form of the marabout. But the Nubian had the advantage of a mirror, from the brilliant reflection which the surface of the highly polished shield now afforded, by means of which he beheld, to his alarm and surprise, that the marabout raised his head gently from the ground, so as to survey all around him, moving with a well-adjusted precaution, which seemed entirely inconsistent with the state of ebriety. He couched his head instantly, and then, as if satisfied he was unobserved, began, with the slightest possible appearance of voluntary effort, to drag himself, as if by chance, ever near and nearer to the King, but stopping, and remaining fixed at intervals, like the spider, which, moving towards her object, collapses into apparent lifelessness, when she thinks she is the subject of observation. This species of movement appeared suspicious to the Ethiopian, who, on his part, prepared himself as quietly as possible to interfere, the instant that interference should seem to be necessary. The marabout meanwhile glided on gradually and imperceptibly, serpent-like, or rather snail-like, till he was about twelve yards’ distance from Richard’s person, when, starting on his feet, he sprung forward with the bound of a tiger, stood at the King’s back in less than an instant, and brandished aloft the cangiar, or poniard, which he had hidden in his sleeve. Not the presence of his whole army could have saved their heroic Monarch—but the motions of the Nubian had been as well calculated as those of the enthusiast, and ere the latter could strike, the former caught his uplifted arm. Turn-

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ing his fanatical wrath upon what thus unexpectedly interposed betwixt him and his object, the Charegite, for such was the seeming marabout, dealt the Nubian a blow with the dagger, which, however, only razed his arm, while the far superior strength of the Ethiopian easily dashed him to the ground. Aware of what had passed, Richard had now arisen, and with little more of surprise, anger, or interest of any kind in his countenance, than an ordinary man would show in brushing off and crushing an intrusive wasp, caught up the stool on which he had been sitting, and exclaiming only “Ha, dog!” dashed to pieces the skull of the assassin, who uttered twice, once in a loud, and once in a broken tone, the words “Allah ackbar”—God is victorious—and expired at the King’s feet. “Ye are careful warders,” said Richard to his archers, in a tone of scornful reproach, as, aroused by the bustle of what had passed, in terror and tumult they now rushed into his tent;—“watchful sentinels, to leave me to do such hangman’s work with my own hand.— Be silent all of you, and cease your senseless clamour! saw ye never a dead Turk before?—Here—cast that carrion out of the camp, strike the head from the trunk, and stick it on a lance, taking care to turn the face to Mecca, that he may the easier tell the foul impostor, on whose inspiration he came hither, how he has sped on his errand. —For thee, my swart and silent friend,” he added, turning to the Ethiopian—“But how’s this?—thou art wounded—and with a poisoned weapon, I warrant me, for by force of stab so weak an animal as that could scarce hope to do more than raze the Lion’s hide.—Suck the poison from his wound one of you—the venom is harmless on the lips, though fatal if it mingles with the blood.” The yeomen looked on each other confusedly and with hesitation, the apprehension of so strange a danger prevailing with those who feared no other. “How now, sirrahs,” continued the King, “are you dainty-lipped, or do you fear death, that you drumble thus?” “Not the death of a man,” said Long Allen, to whom the King looked as he spoke; “but methinks I would not die like a poisoned rat for the sake of a black chattel there, that is bought and sold in a market like a Martlemas ox.” “His Grace speaks to men of sucking poison,” muttered another yeoman, “as if he said, Go to, swallow a gooseberry!” “Nay,” said Richard, “I never bade man do that which I would not do myself.” And, without farther ceremony, and in spite of the general expostulations of those around, and the respectful opposition of the Nubian himself, the King of England applied his lips to the wound of the

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black slave, treating with ridicule all remonstrances, and overpowering all resistance. He had no sooner intermitted his singular occupation, than the Nubian started from him, and casting a scarf over his arm, intimated by gestures, as firm in purpose as they were respectful in manner, his determination not to permit the Monarch to renew so degrading an employment. Long Allen also interposed, saying, that were it necessary to prevent the King engaging again in a treatment of this kind, his own lips, tongue, and teeth, were at the service of the negro, as he called the Ethiopian, and that he would eat him up bodily, rather than King Richard’s mouth should again approach him. Neville, who entered with other officers, added his remonstrances. “Nay, nay, make not a needless halloo about a hart that the hounds have lost, or a danger when it is over,” said the King, “the wound will be a trifle, for the blood is scarce drawn—an angry cat had dealt a deeper scratch—and, for me, I have but to take a drachm of orvietan by way of precaution, though it is needless.” Thus spoke Richard, a little ashamed, perhaps, of his own condescension, though sanctioned both by humanity and gratitude. But when Neville continued to make remonstrances on the peril to his royal person, the King imposed silence on him. “Peace, I prithee—make no more of it—I did it but to show these ignorant prejudiced knaves how they might help each other when those cowardly caitiffs come against us with sarbacanes and poisoned shafts.—But,” he added, “take thee this Nubian to thy quarters, Neville—I have changed my mind touching him—let him be well cared for—But, hark in thine ear—see that he escapes thee not— there is more in him than seems—Let him have all liberty, so that he leave not the camp.—And you, ye beef-devouring, wine-swilling English mastiffs, get ye to your guard again, and be sure you keep it more warily—think not you are now in your own land of fair play, where men speak before they strike, and shake hands ere they cut throats. Danger in our land walks openly, and with his blade drawn, and defies the foe whom he means to assault. But here he challenges you with a silk glove instead of a steel gauntlet, cuts your throat with the feather of a turtle-dove, stabs you with the tongue of a priest’s brooch, or throttles you with the lace of my lady’s boddice. Go to— keep your eyes open and your mouths shut—drink less, hollo less, and look sharper about you; or I will place your huge stomachs on such allowance, as would pinch the stomach of a patient Scotchman.” The yeomen, abashed and mortified, withdrew to their post, and Neville was beginning to remonstrate with his master upon the risk of passing over thus slightly their negligence upon their duty, and

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the propriety of an example in a case so peculiarly aggravated as the permitting a person so suspicious as the marabout to approach within dagger’s length of his person, when Richard interrupted him with, “Speak not of it, Neville—Wouldst thou have me avenge a petty risk to my own person more severely than the loss of England’s Banner? It has been stolen—stolen by a thief, or delivered up by a traitor, and no blood has been shed for it.—My sable friend, thou art an expounder of mysteries, saith the illustrious Soldan—now would I give thee thine own weight in gold, if, by raising one still blacker than thyself, or what other means thou wilt, thou couldst show me the thief who did mine honour that wrong.” The mute seemed desirous to speak, but uttered only that imperfect sound proper to his melancholy condition, then folded his arms, looked on the King with an eye of intelligence, and nodded in answer to his question. “How!” said Richard, with joyful impatience. “Wilt thou undertake to make discovery in this matter?” The Nubian slave repeated the same motion. “But how shall we understand each other?” said the King.— “Canst thou write, good fellow?” The slave again nodded in assent. “Give him writing-tools,” said the King. “They were readier in my father’s tent than mine—but they lie somewhere about, if this scorching climate have not dried up the ink. Why, this fellow is a jewel—a black diamond, Neville.” “So please you, my liege,” said Neville, “if I might speak my poor mind, it were ill dealing in this ware. The man must be a wizard, and wizards deal with the Enemy, who hath most interest to sow tares among the wheat, and bring dissension into our councils, and”—— “Peace, Neville,” said Richard. “Hollo to your northern hound when he is close on the haunch of the deer, and hope to call him, but seek not to stop Plantagenet when he hath hope to retrieve his honour.” The slave, who, during this discussion had been writing, in which art he seemed skilful, now arose, and pressing what he had written to his brow, prostrated himself as usual, ere he delivered it into the King’s hands. The scroll was in French, although their intercourse had hitherto been conducted by Richard in the lingua franca. “To Richard, the conquering and invincible King of England, this from the humblest of his slaves. Mysteries are the sealed caskets of Heaven, but wisdom may devise means to open the lock. Were your slave stationed where the leaders of the host were made to pass

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before him in order, doubt nothing, that if he who did the injury whereof my King complains shall be among the number, he may be made manifest in his iniquity, though it be hidden under seven veils.” “Now, by Saint George!” said King Richard, “thou hast spoken most opportunely.—Neville, thou knowst, that when we muster our troops to-morrow, the princes have agreed, that to expiate the affront offered to England in the theft of her Banner, the leaders should pass our new standard as it floats on Saint George’s Mount, and salute it with formal regard. Believe me, the secret traitor will not dare to absent himself from an expurgation so solemn, lest his very absence should be matter of suspicion—There will we place our sable man of counsel, and, if his art can detect the villain, leave me to deal with him.” “My liege,” said Neville, with the frankness of an English baron, “beware what work you begin. Here is the concord of our holy league unexpectedly renewed—will you, upon such suspicions as a negro slave can instil, tear open wounds so lately closed—or will you use the solemn procession, adopted for the reparation of your honour, and establishment of unanimity amongst the discording princes, as the means of again finding out new cause of offence, or reviving ancient quarrels? It were scarce too strong to say, this were a breach of the declaration your Grace made to the assembled princes.” “Neville,” said the King, sternly interrupting him, “thy zeal makes thee presumptuous and unmannerly. Never did I promise to abstain from taking whatever means were most promising to discover the infamous source of the attack on my honour—ere I had done so, I would have renounced my kingdom—my life. All my declarations were under this necessary and absolute qualification—only, if Austria had stepped forth and owned the injury like a man, I proffered, for the sake of Christendom, to have forgiven him.” “But,” continued the baron, anxiously, “what hope that this juggling slave of Saladin will not palter with your Grace?” “Peace, Neville,” said the King; “thou thinkst thyself mighty wise, and art but a fool. Mind thou my charge touching this fellow— there is more in him than thy Westmoreland wit can fathom.—And thou, swart and silent, prepare to perform the feat thou hast promised, and, by the word of a King, thou shalt choose thine own recompence. —Lo, he writes again.” The mute accordingly wrote and delivered to the King, with the same form as before, another slip of paper, containing these words. —“The will of the King is the law to his slave—nor doth it become him to ask guerdon for discharge of his devoir.”

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“Guerdon and devoir!” said the King, interrupting himself as he read, and speaking to Neville in the English tongue with some emphasis on the words. “These Eastern people will profit by the crusaders—they are acquiring the language of chivalry.—And see, Neville, how discomposed that fellow looks—were it not for his colour he would blush. I should not think it strange if he understood what I say—they are perilous linguists.” “The poor slave cannot endure your Grace’s eye,” said Neville; “it is nothing more.” “Well, but,” continued the King, striking the paper with his finger, as he proceeded, “this bold scroll proceeds to say, that our trusty mute is charged with a message from Saladin to the Lady Edith Plantagenet, and craves means and opportunity to deliver it. What thinkst thou of a request so modest—ha, Neville?” “I cannot say,” said Neville, “how such freedom may relish with your Grace, but the lease of the messenger’s neck would be a short one, who should carry such a request to the Soldan on the part of your Grace.” “Nay, I thank Heaven that I covet none of his sun-burned beauties,” said Richard; “and for punishing this fellow for discharging his master’s errand, and that just when he has saved my life— methinks it were something too summary. I’ll tell thee, Neville, a secret—for, although our sable and mute minister be present, he cannot, thou knowst, tell it over again, even if he should chance to understand us—I tell thee, that, for this fortnight past, I have been under a strange spell, and I would I were disenchanted. There has no sooner any one done me good service, but lo you, he cancels his interest in me by some deep injury; and, on the other hand, he who hath deserved death at my hands for some treachery or some insult, is sure to be the very person, of all others, who confers upon me some obligation that overbalances his demerits, and renders respite of his sentence a debt due from my honour. Thus, thou seest, I am deprived of the best part of my royal function, since I can neither punish men nor reward them. Until the influence of this disqualifying planet be passed away, I will say nothing concerning the request of this our sable attendant, save that it is an unusually bold one, and that his best chance of finding grace in our eyes will be, to endeavour to make the discovery which he proposes to achieve in our behalf. Meanwhile, Neville, do thou look well to him, and let him be honourably cared for.—And hark thee once more,” he said, in a low whisper, “seek out yonder hermit of Engaddi, and bring him to me forthwith, be he saint or savage, madman or sane. Let me see him privately.” Neville retired from the royal tent, signing to the Nubian to follow

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him, and much surprised at what he had seen and heard, and especially at the unusual demeanour of the King. In general, no task was so easy as to discover Richard’s immediate course of sentiment and feeling, though it might, in some cases, be difficult to calculate its duration; for no weathercock obeyed the changing wind more readily, than the King his gusts of passion. But, on the present occasion, his manner seemed unusually constrained and mysterious, nor was it easy to guess whether displeasure or kindness predominated in his conduct towards his new dependant, or in the looks with which, from time to time, he regarded him. The ready service which the King had rendered to counteract the bad effects of the Nubian’s wound, might seem to balance the obligation conferred on him by the slave, when he intercepted the blow of the assassin; but it seemed that a much longer account remained to be arranged between them, that the Monarch was doubtful whether the settlement might leave him, upon the whole, debtor or creditor, and that, therefore, he assumed, in the meantime, a neutral demeanour, which might suit with either character. As for the Nubian, by whatever means he had acquired the art of writing the European languages, the baron remained convinced that the English tongue was at least unknown to him, since, having watched him closely during the last part of the interview, he conceived it impossible for any one understanding a conversation, of which he was himself the subject, to have so completely avoided the appearance of taking interest in it.

Chapter Nine Who’s there?—Approach—’tis kindly done— My learned physician and a friend. S E  G

O     retrogrades to a period shortly previous to the incidents last mentioned, when, as the reader must remember, the unfortunate Knight of the Leopard, bestowed upon the Arabian physician by King Richard rather as a slave than in any other capacity, was exiled from the camp of the crusaders, in whose ranks he had so often and so brilliantly distinguished himself. He followed his new master, for so he must now term the Hakim, to the Moorish tents which contained his retinue and his property, with the stupified feelings of one, who, fallen from the summit of a precipice, and escaping unexpectedly with life, is just able to drag himself from the fatal spot, but without the power of estimating the extent of the damage which he has sustained. Arrived at the tent, he threw himself,

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without speech of any kind, upon a couch of dressed buffalo’s hide, which was pointed out to him by his conductor, and hiding his face betwixt his hands, groaned heavily, as if his heart were on the point of bursting. The physician heard him, as he was giving orders to his numerous domestics to prepare for their departure the next morning before day-break, and, moved with compassion, interrupted his occupation to sit down, crosslegged, by the side of his couch, and administer comfort according to the Oriental manner. “My friend,” he said, “be of good comfort—for what sayeth the poet—it is better that a man should be the servant of a kind master, than the slave of his own wild passions. Again, be of good courage, because, whereas Ysouf Ben Yagoube was sold to a King by his brethren, even to Pharaoh King of Egypt, thy King hath, on the other hand, bestowed thee on one who will be to thee as a brother.” Kenneth made an effort to thank the Hakim, but his heart was too full, and the indistinct sounds which accompanied his abortive attempts to reply, induced the kind physician to desist from his premature endeavours at consolation. He left his new domestic, or guest, in quiet, to indulge his sorrows, and having commanded all the necessary preparations for their departure on the morning, sat down upon the carpet of the tent, and indulged himself in a moderate repast. After he had thus refreshed himself, similar viands were offered to the Scottish Knight; but though the slaves let him understand that the next day would be far advanced ere they would halt for the purpose of refreshment, Sir Kenneth could not overcome the disgust which he felt against swallowing any nourishment, and could be prevailed upon to taste nothing, saving a draught of cold water. He was awake, long after his Arab host had performed his usual devotions, and betaken himself to his repose, nor had sleep visited him at the hour of midnight, when a movement took place among the domestics, which, though attended with no speech, and very little noise, made him aware they were loading the camels and preparing for departure. In the course of these preparations, the last person who was disturbed, excepting the physician himself, was the Knight of Scotland, whom, about three in the morning, a sort of major-domo, or master of the household, acquainted that he must arise. He did so, without farther answer, and followed him into the moonlight, where stood the camels, most of which were already loaded, and one only remained kneeling until its burthen should be completed. A little apart from the camels stood a number of horses ready bridled and saddled, and the Hakim himself coming forth, mounted

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on one of the fairest with as much agility as the grave decorum of his character permitted, and directed another, which he pointed out, to be led towards Kenneth. An English officer was in attendance, to escort them through the camp of the crusaders, and to ensure their leaving it in safety, and all was ready for their departure. The pavilion which they had left, was, in the meanwhile, struck with singular dispatch, and the tent-poles and coverings composed the burthen of the last camel—when the physician, pronouncing solemnly the verse of the Koran, “God be our guide, and Mahommed our protector in the desert as in the watered field,” the whole cavalcade was instantly in motion. In traversing the camp, they were challenged by the various sentinels who maintained guard there, and suffered to proceed in silence, or with a muttered curse upon their prophet, as they passed the post of some more zealous crusader. At length, the last barriers were left behind them, and the party formed themselves for their march with military precaution. Two or three horsemen advanced in front as a vanguard; one or two remained a bowshot in the rear; and, wherever the ground admitted, others were detached to keep an outlook on the flanks. In this manner they proceeded onward, while Kenneth, looking back on the moonlight camp, might now really seem banished, deprived at once of honour and of liberty, from the glimmering banners under which he had hoped to gain additional renown, and the tented dwellings of chivalry, of Christianity, and—of Edith Plantagenet. The Hakim, who rode by his side, observed, in his usual tone of sententious consolation—“It is unwise to look back when the journey lieth forward;” and as he spoke, the horse of the knight made such a perilous stumble as threatened to add a practical moral to the tale. The knight was compelled by this hint to give more attention to the management of his steed, which more than once required the assistance and support of the check-bridle, although, in other respects, nothing could be more easy at once, and active, than the ambling pace at which the animal (which was a mare) proceeded. “The conditions of that horse,” observed the sententious physician, “are like those of human fortune; seeing that amidst his most swift and easy pace, the rider must guard himself against a fall, and that it is when prosperity is at the highest, that our prudence should be awake and vigilant, to prevent misfortune.” The overloaded appetite loathes even the honey-comb, and it is scarce a wonder that the knight, mortified and harassed with misfortunes and abasement, became something impatient of hearing his misery made, at every turn, the ground of proverbs and apo-

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thegms, however just and apposite. “Methinks,” he said, rather peevishly, “I wanted no additional illustration of the instability of fortune—though I would thank thee, Sir Hakim, for thy choice of a horse for me, would the jade but stumble so effectually as at once to break my neck and her own.” “My brother,” answered the Arab sage, with imperturbable gravity, “thou speakest as one of the foolish—Thou sayst in thy heart, that the sage should have given thee, as his guest, the younger and better horse, and reserved the old one for himself; but know, that the defects of the older steed may be compensated by the energies of the young rider, whereas the violence of the young horse requires to be moderated by the cold temper of the older rider.” So spoke the sage; but neither to this observation did Kenneth return any answer which could lead to a continuance of their conversation, and the physician, wearied, perhaps, of administering comfort to one who would not be comforted, signed to one of his retinue. “Hassan,” he said, “hast thou nothing to beguile the way?” Hassan, story-teller and poet by profession, spurred up, upon this summons, to exercise his calling.—“Lord of the palace of life,” he said, addressing the physician, “thou, before whom the angel Azrael spreadeth his wings for flight—thou, wiser than Solimaun ben Daoud, upon whose signet was inscribed the   which controls the spirit of the elements—forbid it, Heaven, that while thou travellest upon the track of benevolence, bearing healing and hope wherever thou comest, thine own course should be saddened for lack of the tale and of the song. Behold, while thy servant is by thy side, he will pour forth the treasures of his memory, as the fountain sendeth her stream beside the pathway, for the refreshment of him that walketh thereon.” After this exordium, Hassan uplifted his voice, and began a tale of love and magic, intermixed with feats of warlike achievement, and ornamented with abundant quotations from the Persian poets, with whose compositions the orator seemed familiar. The retinue of the physician, such excepted as were necessarily detained in attendance on the camels, thronged up to the narrator, and pressed as close as deference for their master permitted, to enjoy the delight which the inhabitants of the East have ever derived from this species of exhibition. At another time, notwithstanding his imperfect knowledge of the language, Kenneth might have been interested in the recitation, which, though dictated by a more extravagant imagination, and expressed in more inflated and metaphorical language, bore yet a strong resemblance to the romances of chivalry, then so fashionable

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in Europe. But as matters then stood with him, he was scarcely even sensible that a man in the centre of the cavalcade recited and sung, in a low tone, for nearly two hours, modulating his voice to the various moods of passion introduced into the tale, and receiving in return, now low murmurs of applause, now muttered expressions of wonder, now sighs and tears, and sometimes, what it was far more difficult to exact from such an audience, a tribute of smiles, and even laughter. During the recitation, the attention of the exile, however abstracted by his own deep sorrow, was occasionally awakened by the deep wail of a dog, secured in a wicker inclosure suspended on one of the camels, which, as an experienced woodsman, he had no hesitation in recognizing to be that of his own faithful hound; and from the plaintive tone of the animal, he had no doubt that he was sensible of his master’s vicinity, and in his way invoking his assistance for liberty and rescue. “Alas! poor Roswal,” he said, “thou callest for aid and sympathy upon one yet more impuissant than thou thyself art. I will not seem to heed thee, or return thy affection, since it would serve but to load our parting with yet more bitterness.” Thus passed the hours of night, and the space of dim hazy dawn, which forms the twilight of a Syrian morning. But when the very first line of the sun’s disk began to rise above the level horizon, and when the very first level ray shot glimmering in dew along the surface of the desert, which the travellers had now attained, the sonorous voice of El Hakim himself overpowered and cut short the narrative of the taleteller, while he caused to resound along the sands the solemn summons, which the muezzins thunder at morning from the minaret of every mosque. “To prayer—to prayer! God is the one God.—To prayer—to prayer! Mahommed is the Prophet of God.—To prayer—to prayer! Time is flying from you.—To prayer—to prayer! Judgment is drawing nigh to you.” In an instant each Moslem cast himself from his horse, turned his face towards Mecca, and performed with sand an imitation of those ablutions, which were elsewhere required to be made with water, while each individual, in brief but fervent ejaculations, recommended himself to the care, and his sins to the forgiveness, of God and the Prophet. Even Kenneth, whose reason at once and prejudices were offended by seeing his companions in that which he considered as an act of idolatry, could not help respecting the sincerity of their misguided zeal, and being stimulated by their fervour to apply supplications to

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Heaven in a purer form, wondering, meanwhile, what new-born feelings could teach him to accompany in prayer, though with varied invocation, those very Saracens, whose heathenish worship he had conceived a crime dishonourable to the land in which high miracles had been wrought, and where the day-star of redemption had arisen. The act of devotion, however, though rendered in such strange society, burst purely from his natural feelings of religious duty, and had its usual effect in composing the spirits, which had been long harassed by so rapid a succession of calamities. The sincere and earnest approach of the Christian to the throne of the Almighty, teaches the best lesson of patience under affliction; since wherefore should we mock the Deity with supplications, when we insult him by murmuring under his decrees?—or how, while our prayers have in every word admitted the vanity and nothingness of the things of time in comparison to those of eternity, should we hope to deceive the Searcher of Hearts, by permitting the world and worldly passions to reassume their turbulent empire over our bosoms, the instant when our devotions are ended? There have been, and perhaps are now, persons so inconsistent, as to suffer earthly passion to reassume the reins even immediately after a solemn address to Heaven; but Kenneth was not of these. He felt himself comforted and strengthened, and better prepared to execute or submit to whatever his destiny might call upon him to do or to suffer. Meanwhile the party of Saracens regained their saddles, and continued their route, and the tale-teller, Hassan, resumed the thread of his narration; but it was no longer to the same attentive audience. A horseman, who had ascended some high ground on the right hand of the little column, had returned on a speedy gallop to El Hakim, and communicated with him. Four or five more cavaliers had then been dispatched, and the little band, which might consist of about twenty or thirty persons, began to follow them with their eyes, as men from whose gestures, and advance or retreat, they were to augur good or evil. Hassan, finding his audience inattentive, or being himself attracted by the dubious appearances on the flank, stinted in his song; and the march became silent, save when a camel-driver called out to his patient charge, or some anxious follower of the Hakim communicated with his next neighbour in a hurried and low whisper. This suspense continued until they had rounded a ridge, composed of hillocks of sand, which concealed from their main body the object that had created this alarm among their scouts. Kenneth could now see, at the distance of perhaps a mile, a dark object moving rapidly on the bosom of the desert, which his experienced eye recognized

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for a party of cavalry, much superior to their own in numbers, and, from the thick and frequent flashes which flung back the level beams of the rising sun, it was plain that these were Europeans in their complete panoply. The anxious looks which the horsemen of El Hakim now cast upon their leader, seemed to indicate deep apprehension; while he, with gravity as imperturbed as when he called his followers to prayer, detached two of his best mounted cavaliers, with instructions to approach as closely as prudence permitted to these travellers of the desert, and observe more minutely their numbers, their character, and, if possible, their purpose. The approach of danger, or what was feared as such, was like a stimulating draught to one in apathy, and recalled Kenneth to himself and his situation. “What fear you from these Christian horsemen, for such they seem?” said he to the Hakim. “Fear!” said El Hakim, repeating the word disdainfully—“The sage fears nothing but Heaven—but ever expects from wicked men the worst which they can do.” “They are Christians,” said Kenneth, “and it is the time of truce —why should you fear a breach of faith?” “They are the priestly soldiers of the Temple,” answered El Hakim, “whose vow binds them to know neither truce nor faith with the worshippers of Islam. May the Prophet blight them, both branch and bough!—Their peace is war, and their faith is falsehood. Other invaders of Palestine have their terms and moods of courtesy. The lion Richard will spare when he has conquered—the eagle Philip will cloud his wing when he has stricken a prey—even the Austrian bear will sleep when he is gorged; but this horde of ever-hungry wolves know neither pause nor satiety in their rapine—Seest thou not that they are detaching a party from their main body, and that they take an eastward direction? Yon are their pages and squires, whom they train up in their accursed mysteries, and whom, as lighter mounted, they send to cut us off from our watering-place. But they will be disappointed—I know the war of the desert yet better than they.” He spoke a few words to his principal officer, and his whole demeanour and countenance was at once changed from the solemn repose of an Eastern sage, accustomed more to contemplation than to action, into the prompt and proud expression of a gallant soldier, whose energies are roused by the near approach of a danger which he at once foresees and despises. To Kenneth’s eyes the approaching crisis had a different aspect, and when Adonbec said to him, “Thou must tarry close by my side,”

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he answered solemnly in the negative. “Yonder,” he said, “are my comrades in arms—the men in whose society I have vowed to fight or fall—on their banner gleams the sign of our most blessed redemption—I cannot fly from the Cross in company with the Crescent.” “Fool!” said the Hakim; “their first action would be to do thee to death, were it only to conceal their breach of the truce.” “Of that I must take my chance,” replied Kenneth; “but I wear not the bonds of the infidels an instant longer than I can cast them from me.” “Then will I compel thee to follow me,” said the Hakim. “Compel?” answered Kenneth, angrily. “Wert thou not my benefactor, or one who has showed will to be such, and were it not that it is to thy confidence I owe the freedom of these hands, which thou mightst have loaded with fetters, I would show thee that, unarmed as I am, compulsion would be no easy task.” “Enough, enough,” replied the Arabian physician, “we lose time even when it is becoming precious.” So saying, he threw his arm aloft, and uttered a loud and shrill cry, as a signal to those of his retinue, who instantly dispersed themselves on the face of the desert, in as many different directions as a chaplet of beads when the string is broken. Sir Kenneth had no time to note what ensued; for, at the same instant, the Hakim seized the rein of his steed, and putting his own to its mettle, both sprung forth at once with the suddenness of light, and at a pitch of velocity which almost deprived the Scottish knight of the power of respiration, and left him absolutely incapable, had he been desirous, to have checked the career of his guide. Practised as Kenneth was in horsemanship from his earliest youth, the speediest horse he had ever mounted was a tortoise in comparison to those of the Arabian sage. They spurned the sand from behind them—they seemed to devour the desert before them—miles flew away with minutes, and yet their strength seemed unabated, and their respiration as free as when they first started upon the wonderful race. The motion, too, as easy as it was rapid, seemed more like flying through the air than riding on the earth, and was attended with no unpleasant sensation, save the awe naturally felt by one who is moving at such astonishing speed, and the difficulty of breathing occasioned by their passing through the air so rapidly. It was not until after an hour of this portentous motion, and when all human pursuit was far, far behind, that the Hakim at length relaxed his speed, and slackening the pace of the horses into a hand gallop, began, in a voice as composed and even as if he had been

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walking for the last hour, a descant upon the excellence of his coursers to the Scot, who, breathless, half blind, half deaf, and altogether giddy, from the rapidity of this singular ride, hardly comprehended the words which flowed so freely from his companion. “These horses,” he said, “are of the breed called the Winged, equal in speed to aught excepting the Borak of the Prophet. They are fed on the golden barley of Yemen, mixed with spices, and with a small portion of dried and pounded sheep’s flesh. Kings have given provinces to possess them, and their age is active as their youth. Thou, Nazarene, art the first, save a true believer, that ever had beneath his loins one of this noble race, a gift of the Prophet himself to the blessed Ali, his kinsman and lieutenant, well called the Lion of God. Time lays his touch so lightly on these generous steeds, that the mare on which thou now sittest has seen five times five years pass over her, yet retains her pristine speed and vigour, only that in the career the support of a bridle, managed by a hand more experienced than thine, hath now become necessary. May the Prophet be blessed, who hath bestowed on the true believers the means of advance and retreat, which causeth their iron-clothed enemies to be worn out with their own ponderous weight! How the horses of yonder dog Templars must have snorted and blown, when they had toiled fetlock-deep in the desert for one twentieth part of the space which these brave steeds have left behind them, without one thick pant, or a drop of moisture upon their sleek and velvet coats!” The Scottish knight, who had now begun to recover his breath and powers of attention, could not help acknowledging in his heart the advantage possessed by these Eastern warriors in a race of animals, alike proper for advance or retreat, and so admirably adapted to the level and sandy deserts of Arabia and Syria. But he did not choose to augment the pride of the Moslem by acquiescing in his proud claim of superiority, and therefore suffered the conversation to drop, and, looking around him, could now, at the more moderate pace at which they moved, distinguish that he was in a country not unknown to him. The blighted borders, and sullen waters of the Dead Sea, the ragged and precipitous chain of mountains arising on the left, the two or three palms clustered together, forming the single green speck on the bosom of the waste wilderness,—objects which, once seen, were scarcely to be forgotten,—showed to Kenneth that they were approaching the fountain called the Diamond of the Desert, which had been the scene of his interview on a former occasion with the Saracen Emir Sheerkohf, or Ilderim. In a few minutes they

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checked their horses beside the spring, and the Hakim invited Kenneth to descend from horseback, and repose himself as in a place of safety. They unbridled their steeds, El Hakim observing that farther care of them was unnecessary, since they would be speedily joined by some of the best mounted among his slaves, who would do what farther was needful. “Meantime,” he said, spreading some food on the grass, “eat and drink, and be not discouraged. Fortune may raise up or abase the ordinary mortal, but the sage and the soldier should have minds beyond her control.” The Scottish knight endeavoured to testify his thanks by showing himself docile; but though he strove to eat out of complaisance, the singular contrast between his present situation and that which he had occupied on the same spot, when the envoy of princes, and the victor in combat, came like a cloud over his mind, and fasting, lassitude, and fatigue, oppressed his bodily powers. El Hakim examined his hurried pulse, his red and inflamed eye, his heated hand, and his shortened respiration. “The mind,” he said, “grows wise by watching, but her sister the body, of coarser materials, needs the support of sleep. Thou must sleep; and that thou mayst do so to refreshment, thou must take a draught mingled with this elixir.” He drew from his bosom a small crystal vial, cased in silver filigree-work, and dropped into a little golden drinking-cup a small portion of a dark-coloured fluid. “This,” he said, “is one of those productions which Allah hath sent on earth for a blessing, though man’s weakness and wickedness have sometimes converted it into a curse. It is powerful as the winecup of the Nazarene to drop the curtain on the sleepless eye, and to relieve the burthen of the overloaded bosom; but when applied to the purposes of indulgence and debauchery, it rends the nerves, destroys the strength, weakens the intellect, and undermines life. But fear not, though, to use its virtues in the time of need, for the wise man warms him by the same firebrand with which the madman burneth the tent.” “I have seen too much of thy skill, sage Hakim,” said Kenneth, “to debate thine ordinance;” and swallowed the narcotic, mingled as it was with some water from the spring, then wrapped him in a haik, or Arab cloak, which had been fastened to his saddle-pommel, and, according to the directions of the physician, stretched himself at ease in the shade to await the promised repose. Sleep came not at first, but in her stead a train of pleasing yet not rousing or awakening sensations. A state ensued, in which, still conscious of his own

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identity and his own condition, the knight felt enabled to consider them not only without alarm and sorrow, but as composedly as he might have viewed the story of his misfortunes acted upon a stage, or rather as a disembodied spirit might regard the transactions of its past existence. From this state of repose, amounting almost to apathy respecting the past, his thoughts were hurried forward to the future, which, in spite of all that existed to overcloud the prospect, glittered with such hues, as under much happier auspices his unstimulated imagination had not been able to produce, even in its most exalted state. Liberty, fame, successful love, appeared to be the certain, and not very distant prospect, of the enslaved exile, the dishonoured knight, even of the despairing lover, who had placed his hopes of happiness so far beyond the prospect of chance, in her wildest possibilities, serving to countenance his wishes. Gradually as the intellectual sight became overclouded, these gay visions became obscure, like the dying hues of sunset, until they were at last lost in total oblivion; and Kenneth lay extended at the feet of El Hakim, to all appearance, but for his deep respiration, as inanimate a corpse as if life had actually departed.

Chapter Ten Mid these wild scenes Enchantment waves her wand, To change the face of the mysterious land; Till the bewildering scenes around us seem The vain productions of a feverish dream. Astolpho, a Romance

W    the Knight of the Leopard awakened from his long and profound repose, he found himself in circumstances so changed from those in which he had lain down to sleep, that he doubted whether he was not yet dreaming, or whether the scene had not been changed by magic. Instead of the damp grass, he lay on a couch of more than Oriental luxury, and some kind hands had, during his repose, stripped him of the cassock of chamois which he wore under his armour, and substituted a night dress of the finest linen, and a loose gown of silk. He had been canopied only by the palm-trees of the desert, but now he lay beneath a pavilion of silk, which blazed with the richest colours of the Chinese loom, while a slight curtain of gauze, displayed around his couch, was calculated to protect his repose from the insects, to whom he had, ever since his arrival in these climates, been an unheeding and passive prey. He looked around, as if to convince himself that he was actually awake, and all that fell beneath his eye partook of the splendour of

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his dormitory. A portable bath of cedar, lined with silver, was ready for use, and steamed with the odours which had been used in preparing it. On a small stand of ebony beside the couch, stood a silver vase, containing sherbet of the most exquisite quality, cooled in snow, and which the thirst that followed the use of the strong narcotic rendered peculiarly delicious. Still farther to dispel the dregs of intoxication which it had left behind, the knight resolved to use the bath, and experienced in doing so a delightful refreshment. Having dried himself with napkins of the Indian wool, he would willingly have resumed his own coarse garments, that he might go forth to see whether the world was as much changed without as within the place of his repose. These, however, were nowhere to be seen, but in their place he found a Saracen dress of rich materials, with sabre and poniard, and all befitting an emir of distinction. He was able to suggest no motive to himself for this exuberance of care, excepting a suspicion that these attentions were intended to shake him in his religious professions, as indeed it was well known that the high esteem of the European knowledge and courage made the Soldan unbounded in his gifts to those, who, having become his prisoners, had been induced to take the turban. Kenneth, therefore, crossing himself devoutly, resolved to set all such snares at defiance; and that he might do so the more firmly, conscientiously determined to avail himself as moderately as possible of the attentions and luxuries thus liberally heaped upon him. Still, however, he felt his head oppressed and sleepy, and aware, too, that his undress was not fit for appearing abroad, he reclined upon the couch, and was again locked in the arms of slumber. This time, however, his rest was not unbroken; for he was awakened by the voice of the physician at the door of the tent, inquiring after his health, and whether he had rested sufficiently.—“May I enter your tent?” he concluded, “for the curtain is drawn before the entrance.” “The master,” replied Kenneth, determined to show that he was not surprised into forgetfulness of his own condition, “need demand no permission to enter the tent of the slave.” “But if I come not as a master?” said El Hakim, still without entering. “The physician,” replied Kenneth, “hath free access to the bedside of his patient.” “Neither come I now as a physician,” replied El Hakim; “and therefore I still request permission, ere I come under the covering of thy tent.” “Whoever comes as a friend,” said Kenneth, “and such thou hast

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hitherto shown thyself to me, the habitation of the friend is ever open to him.” “Yet once again,” said the Eastern sage, after the periphrastical manner of his countrymen, “supposing that I come not as a friend?” “Come as thou wilt,” said the Scottish knight, somewhat impatient of this circumlocution, “be what thou wilt—thou knowst well it is neither in my power nor my inclination to refuse thee entrance.” “I come, then,” said El Hakim, “as your ancient foe; but a fair and a generous one.” He entered as he spoke; and when he stood before the bedside of Kenneth, the voice continued to be that of Adonbec the Arabian physician, but the form, dress, and features, were those of Ilderim of Kurdistan, called Sheerkohf. Kenneth gazed upon him, as if he expected the vision to depart, like something created by his imagination. “Doth it so surprise thee,” said Ilderim, “and thou an apparent warrior, to see that a soldier knows somewhat of the art of healing? —I say to thee, Nazarene, that an accomplished cavalier should know how to dress his steed as well as how to ride him; how to forge his sword upon the stithy, as well as how to use it in battle; how to burnish his arms, as well as how to wear them—and, above all, how to cure wounds as well as how to inflict them.” As he spoke, the Christian knight repeatedly shut his eyes, and while they remained closed, the idea of the Hakim, with his long flowing dark robes, high tartar cap, and grave gestures, was present to his imagination; but so soon as he opened them, the graceful and richly gemmed turban, the light hauberk of steel rings entwisted with silver, which glanced brilliantly as it obeyed every inflection of the body, the features freed from their formal expression, less swarthy, and no longer shadowed by the mass of hair which was now limited to a well-trimmed beard, announced the soldier and not the sage. “Art thou still so much surprised,” said the Emir, “and hast thou walked in the world with such little observance, as to wonder that men are not always what they seem?—Thou thyself—art thou what thou seemest?” “No, by Saint Andrew!” exclaimed the knight; “for, to the whole Christian camp I seem a traitor, and I know myself to be a true, though an erring man.” “Even so I judged thee,” said Ilderim, “and as we had eaten salt together, I deemed myself bound to rescue thee from death and contumely.—But wherefore lie you still on your couch, since the sun is high in the heavens? or are the vestments which my sumpter-

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camels have afforded unworthy of your wearing?” “Not unworthy, surely, but unfitting for it,” replied the Scot; “give me the dress of a slave, noble Ilderim, and I will don it with pleasure; but I cannot brook to wear the habit of the free Eastern warrior, with the turban of the Moslem.” “Nazarene,” answered the Emir, “thy nation so easily entertain suspicion, that it may well render themselves suspected. Have I not told thee that Saladin desires no converts saving those whom the holy Prophet shall dispose to submit themselves to his law? violence and bribery are alike alien to his plan for extending the true faith. Hearken to me, my brother. When the blind man was miraculously restored to sight, the scales dropped from his eyes at the Divine pleasure—thinkst thou that any earthly leech could have removed them? No. Such mediciner might have tormented the patient with his instruments, or perhaps soothed him with his balsams and cordials, but dark as he was, must the darkened man have remained; and it is even so with the blindness of the understanding. If there be those among the Franks, who, for the sake of worldly lucre, have assumed the turban of the Prophet, and followed the laws of Islam, with their own consciences be the blame. Themselves sought out the bait—it was not flung to them by the Soldan. And when they shall hereafter be sentenced, as hypocrites, to the lowest gulph of hell, below Christian and Jew, Magian and idolater, and condemned to eat the fruit of the tree Zacoum, which is the heads of demons— to themselves, not to the Soldan, shall their guilt and their punishment be attributed.—Wherefore wear, without doubt or scruple, the vesture prepared for you, since, if you proceed to the camp of Saladin, your own native dress will expose you to troublesome observation, and perhaps to insult.” “If I go to the camp of Saladin?” said Kenneth, repeating the words of the Emir; “Alas! am I a free agent, and must I not go wherever your pleasure carries me?” “Thine own will may guide thine own motions,” said the Emir, “as freely as the wind which moveth the dust of the desert in what direction it chooses. The noble enemy who met, and well nigh mastered my sword, cannot become my slave like him who has crouched beneath it. If wealth and power would tempt thee to join our people, I could ensure thy possessing them; but the man who refused the favours of the Soldan, when the axe was at his head, will not, I fear, now accept them, when I tell him he has his free choice.” “Complete your generosity, brave Emir,” said Kenneth, “by forbearing to show me a mode of requital, which conscience forbids me to comply with. Permit me rather to express, as bound in courtesy,

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my gratitude for this most chivalrous bounty, this undeserved generosity.” “Say not undeserved,” replied the Emir Ilderim; “was it not through thy conversation, and thy account of the beauties which grace the court of the Melec Ric, that I ventured me thither in disguise, and thereby procured a sight the most blissful that I have ever enjoyed—that I ever shall enjoy, until the glories of Paradise beam on my eyes?” “I understand you not,” said Kenneth, colouring alternately, and turning pale, as one who felt that the conversation was taking a tone of the most painful delicacy. “Not understand me?” exclaimed the Emir. “If the sight I saw in the tent of King Richard escaped thine observation, I will account it duller than the edge of a buffoon’s wooden falchion. True, thou wert under sentence of death at the time; but, in my case, had my head been dropping from the trunk, the last strained glances of my eyeballs had distinguished with delight such a vision of loveliness, and the head would have rolled itself towards the incomparable houris, to kiss with its quivering lips the hem of their vestments.— Yonder royalty of England, who for her superior loveliness deserves to be Queen of the universe—what tenderness in her blue eye— what lustre in her tresses of dishevelled gold!—By the tomb of the Prophet, I scarce think that the houri who shall present to me the diamond-cup of immortality, will deserve so warm a caress!” “Saracen,” said Kenneth, sternly, “thou speakest of the wife of Richard of England, of whom men think not and speak not as a woman to be won, but as a Queen to be revered.” “I cry you mercy,” said the Saracen. “I had forgotten your superstitious veneration for the sex, which you consider rather fit to be wondered at and worshipped, than wooed and possessed. I warrant, since thou exactest such profound respect to yonder tender piece of frailty, whose every motion, step, and look, bespeaks her very woman, less than absolute adoration must not be yielded to her of the dark tresses, and nobly speaking eye. She, indeed, I will allow, hath in her noble port and majestic mien something at once pure and firm—yet even she, when pressed by opportunity and a favoured lover, would, I warrant thee, thank him in her heart, rather for treating her as a mortal than as a goddess.” “Respect the kinswoman of Coeur de Lion,” said Kenneth, in a tone of unrepressed anger. “Respect her!” answered the Emir, in scorn—“by the Caaba, and if I do, it shall be rather as the bride of Saladin.” “The infidel Soldan is unworthy to salute even a spot that has

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been pressed by the foot of Edith Plantagenet!” exclaimed the Christian, springing from his couch. “Ha! what said the Giaour?” exclaimed the Emir, laying his hand on his poniard hilt, while his forehead glowed like gleaming copper, and the muscles of his lips and cheeks wrought till each curl of his beard seemed to twist and screw itself, as if alive with instinctive wrath. But Kenneth, who had stood the lion-anger of Richard, was unappalled at the tiger-like mood of the chafed Saracen. “What I have said,” he replied, with folded arms and dauntless look, “I would, were my hands loose, maintain on foot or horseback against all mortals, and would hold it not the most memorable deed of my life to support it with my good broad-sword against a score of these sickles and bodkins,” pointing at the sabre and poniard of the Emir. The Saracen recovered his own composure as the Christian spoke, and withdrew his hand from his weapon, as if the motion had been without meaning; but still continued in deep ire. “By the sword of the Prophet,” he said, “which is the key both of Heaven and Hell, he little values his own life, brother, who uses the language thou doest! Believe me, that were thine hands loose, as thou termst it, one single true believer would find them so much to do, that thou would’st soon wish them fettered again in manacles of iron.” “Sooner would I wish them hewn off by the shoulder-blades,” replied Kenneth. “But thy hands are bound at present,” said the Saracen, in a more amicable tone, “bound by thine own gentle sense of courtesy, nor have I any present purpose of setting them at liberty. We have proved each other’s strength and courage ere now, and we may again meet in a fair field;—and shame befal him who shall be the first to part from his foeman! But now we are friends, and I look for aid from thee, rather than hard terms or defiances.” “We are friends,” repeated the knight; and there was a pause, during which the fiery Saracen paced the tent like the lion, who, after violent irritation, is said to take that mode of cooling the distemperature of his blood, ere he stretches himself to repose in his den. The colder European remained unaltered in posture and aspect; yet he, doubtless, was also engaged in subduing the angry feelings which had been so unexpectedly awakened. “Let us reason of this calmly,” said the Saracen; “I am a physician, as thou knowst, and it is written, that he who would have his wound cured must not shrink when the leech probes and tents it. Seest thou, I am about to lay my finger on the sore. Thou lovest this kinswoman of

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the Melec Ric—Unfold the veil that shrouds thy thoughts—or unfold it not if thou wilt, for mine eyes see through its coverings.” “I loved her,” answered Kenneth, after a pause, “as man loves Heaven’s grace, and sued for her favour as for Heaven’s pardon.” “And you love her no longer?” said the Saracen. “Alas,” answered Sir Kenneth, “I am no longer worthy to love her.—I prithee cease this discourse—thy words are poniards to me.” “Pardon me but a moment,” continued Ilderim. “When thou, a poor and obscure soldier, didst so boldly and so highly fix thine affection, tell me, hadst thou good hope of its issue?” “Love exists not without hope,” replied the knight; “but mine was as nearly allied to despair, as that of the sailor swimming for his life, as he surmounts billow after billow, and catches by intervals some gleam of the distant beacon, which shows him there is land in sight, though his sinking heart and wearied limbs assure him that he shall never reach it.” “And now,” said Ilderim, “these hopes are sunk—that solitary light is quenched for ever?” “For ever,” answered Kenneth, in the tone of an echo from the bosom of a ruined sepulchre. “Methinks,” said the Saracen, “if all thou lackst were some such distant meteoric glimpse of happiness as thou hadst formerly, thy beacon-light might be rekindled, thy hope fished up from the ocean in which it has sunk, and thou thyself, good knight, restored to the exercise and amusement of nourishing love upon a diet as unsubstantial as moon-light; for, if thou stoodst to-morrow fair in reputation as ever thou wert, she whom thou lovest will not be less the daughter of princes, and the elected bride of Saladin.” “I would it so stood,” said the Scot, “and if I did not——” He stopped short, like a man who is afraid of boasting, under circumstances which did not permit his being put to the test. The Saracen smiled as he concluded the sentence. “Thou wouldst challenge the Soldan to single combat?—” “And if I did,” said Kenneth, haughtily, “he would neither be the first nor the best turban that I have couched lance at.” “Ay, but methinks he might think it all too unequal a mode of perilling the chance of a royal bride, and the event of a great war,” said the Emir. “He may be met with in front of battle,” said the knight, his eyes gleaming with the ideas which such a thought inspired. “He has been ever found there,” said Ilderim; “nor is it his wont to turn his horse’s head from any brave encounter.—But it was not

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of the Soldan that I meant to speak. In a word, if it will content thee to be placed in such reputation as may be attained by detection of the thief who stole the Banner of England, I can put thee in a fair way of achieving this task—that is, if thou wilt be governed; for what says Lokman, If the child would walk, the nurse must lead him—if the ignorant would understand, the wise must instruct.” “And thou art wise, Ilderim,” said the Scot, “wise though a Saracen, and generous though an infidel—I have witnessed that thou art both—take, then, the guidance of this matter; and so thou ask nothing of me contrary to my loyalty and my Christian faith, I will obey thee punctually. Do what thou hast said, and take my life when it is accomplished.” “Listen thou to me, then,” said the Saracen. “Thy noble hound is now recovered, by the blessing of that divine medicine which healeth man and beast, and by his sagacity shall those who assailed him be discovered.” “Ha!” said the Knight,—“methinks I comprehend thee—I was dull not to think of this!—” “But tell me,” added the Emir, “hast thou any followers or retainers in the camp, by whom the animal may be known?” “I dismissed,” said Sir Kenneth, “my old attendant—thy patient —with a varlet who waited on him, at the time when I expected to suffer death, giving him letters for my friends in Scotland—there are none other to whom the dog is familiar—But then my own person is well known—my very speech will betray me, in a camp where I have played no mean part for many months.” “Both he and thou shall be disguised, so as to escape even close examination.—I tell thee,” said the Saracen, “that not thy brother in arms—not thy brother in blood—shall discover thee, if thou be guided by my counsels. Thou hast seen me do matters more difficult —he that can call the dying from the darkness of the shadow of death, can easily cast a mist before the eyes of the living. But mark me—there is still the condition annexed to this service, that thou deliver a letter of Saladin to the niece of the Melec Ric, whose name is as difficult to our Eastern tongues and lips, as her beauty is delightful to our eyes.” Sir Kenneth paused before he answered, and the Saracen observing his hesitation, demanded of him, “if he feared to undertake this message?” “Not if there was death in the execution,” said Kenneth; “I do but pause to consider whether it consists with my honour to bear the letter of the Soldan, or with that of the Lady Edith to receive it from a heathen prince.”

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“By the head of Mahommed, and by the honour of a soldier—by the tomb at Medina, and by the soul of my father,” said the Emir, “I swear to thee that the letter is written in all honour and respect. The song of the nightingale will sooner blight the rose-bower she loves, than will the words of the Soldan offend the ears of the lovely kinswoman of England.” “Then,” said the knight, “I will bear the Soldan’s letter faithfully, as if I were his born vassal;—understanding, that beyond this simple act of service, which I will render with fidelity, from me of all men he can least expect mediation or advice in this his strange love-suit.” “Saladin is noble,” answered the Emir, “and will not spur a generous horse to a leap which he cannot achieve.—Come with me to my tent,” he added, “and thou shalt be presently equipped with a disguise as unsearchable as midnight; so thou mayst walk the camp of the Nazarenes as if thou hadst on thy finger the signet of Giaougi.”*

Chapter Eleven ——A grain of dust Soiling our cup, will make our sense reject Fastidiously the draught which we did thirst for; A rusted nail, placed near the faithful compass, Will sway it from the truth, and wreck the argosy. Even thus small cause of anger and disgust Will break the bonds of amity ’mongst princes, And wreck their noblest purposes. The Crusade

T   can now have little doubt who the Ethiopian slave really was, with what purpose he had sought Richard’s camp, and wherefore and with what hope he now stood close to the person of that monarch, as, surrounded by his valiant peers of England and Normandy, Coeur de Lion stood on the summit of Saint George’s Mount, with the Banner of England by his side, borne by the most goodly person in the army, being his own natural brother, William with the Long Sword, Earl of Salisbury, the offspring of Henry the Second’s amour with the celebrated Rosamond of Woodstock. From several expressions in the King’s conversation with Neville on the preceding day, the Nubian was left in anxious doubt whether his disguise had not been penetrated, especially as that the King seemed to be aware in what manner the agency of the dog was expected to discover the thief who stole the banner, although the circumstance of such an animal’s having been wounded on the occasion, had been scarce mentioned in Richard’s presence. Never* Perhaps the same with Gyges.

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theless, as the King continued to treat him in no other manner than his exterior required, the Nubian remained uncertain whether he was or was not discovered, and determined not to throw his disguise aside voluntarily. Meanwhile, the powers of the various crusading princes, arrayed under their royal and princely leaders, swept in long order around the base of the little mound; and as those of each different country passed by, their commanders advanced a step or two up the hill, and made a signal of courtesy to Richard and to the Standard of England, “in sign of regard and amity,” as the protocol of the ceremony heedfully expressed it, “not of subjection or vassalage.” The spiritual dignitaries, who in those days vailed not their bonnets to created thing, bestowed on the King and his symbol of command their blessing instead of obeisance. Thus the long files marched on, and, diminished as they were by so many causes, appeared still an iron host, to whom the conquest of Palestine might seem an easy task. The soldiers, inspired by the consciousness of united strength, sat erect in their steel saddles, while it seemed that the trumpets sounded more cheerfully shrill, and the steeds, refreshed by rest and provender, chafed on the bit, and trod the ground more proudly. On they passed, troop after troop, banners waving, spears glancing, plumes dancing, in long perspective—a host composed of different nations, complexions, languages, arms, and appearances, but all fired, for the time, with the holy yet romantic purpose of rescuing the distressed daughter of Zion from her thraldom, and redeeming the sacred earth, which more than mortal had trodden, from the yoke of the unbelieving pagan. And it must be owned, that if, in other circumstances, the species of courtesy rendered to the King of England by so many warriors, from whom he claimed no natural allegiance, had in it something that might have been thought humiliating, yet the nature and cause of the war was so fitted to his pre-eminently chivalrous character, and renowned feats in arms, that claims, which might elsewhere have been urged, were there forgotten, and the brave did willing homage to the bravest, in an expedition where the most undaunted and energetic courage was necessary to success. The good King was seated on horseback about half way up the Mount, a morion on his head, surmounted by a crown, which left his manly features exposed to public view, as, with cool and considerate eye, he perused each rank as it passed him, and returned the salutation of the leaders. His tunic was of sky-coloured velvet, covered with plates of silver, and his hose of crimson silk, slashed with cloth of gold. By his side stood the seeming Ethiopian slave, holding

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the noble dog in a leash, such as was used in wood-craft. It was a circumstance which attracted no notice, for many of the princes of the crusade had introduced black slaves into their household, in imitation of the barbarous splendour of the Saracens. Over the King’s head streamed the large folds of the banner, and, as he looked to it from time to time, he seemed to regard a ceremony, indifferent to himself personally, as important, when considered as atoning an indignity offered to the kingdom which he ruled. In the back-ground, and on the very summit of the Mount, a wooden turret, erected for the occasion, held the Queen Berengaria and the principal ladies of the court. To this the King looked from time to time, and then ever and anon his eyes were turned on the Nubian and the dog, but only when such leaders approached as, from circumstances of previous ill-will, he suspected of being accessary to the theft of the standard, or whom he judged capable of a crime so mean. Thus, he did not look in that direction when Philip Augustus of France approached at the head of his splendid troops of Gallic chivalry—nay, he anticipated the motions of the French King, by descending the Mount as the latter came up the ascent, so that they met in the middle space, and blended their greetings so gracefully, that it appeared they met in fraternal equality. The sight of the two greatest princes in Europe, in rank at once and power, thus publicly avowing their concord, called forth bursts of thundering acclaim from the crusading host at many miles’ distance, and made the roving Arab scouts of the desert alarm the camp of Saladin with intelligence, that the host of the Christians was in motion. Yet who but the King of kings can read the hearts of monarchs? Under this smooth show of courtesy, Richard nourished displeasure and suspicion against Philip, and Philip meditated withdrawing himself and his host from the army of the Cross, and leaving Richard to accomplish or fail in the enterprize with his own unassisted forces. Richard’s demeanour was different when the dark-armed knights and squires of the Temple chivalry approached—men with countenances bronzed to Asiatic blackness by the suns of Palestine, and the admirable state of whose horses and appointments far surpassed even that of the choicest troops of France and England. The King cast a hasty glance aside, but the Nubian stood quiet, and his trusty dog sat at his feet, watching with a sagacious yet placid look, the ranks which successively passed before them. The King’s look turned again on the chivalrous Templars, as the Grand Master, availing himself of his mingled character, bestowed his benediction on Richard as a priest, instead of doing him reverence as a military leader.

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“The misproud and amphibious caitiff puts the monk upon me,” said Richard to the Earl of Salisbury. “But, Long-Sword, we will let it pass—a punctilio must not lose Christendom the services of these experienced lances, because their victories have rendered them overweening. Lo you, here comes our valiant adversary the Duke of Austria—mark his manner and bearing, Long-Sword—and thou, Nubian, let the hound have full view of him—by Heaven, he brings his buffoons alongst with him!” In fact, whether from habit, or, which is more likely, to intimate contempt of the ceremonial he was about to comply with, Leopold was attended by his spruch-sprecher and his jester, and as he advanced towards Richard, he whistled in what he wished to be considered as an indifferent manner, though his heavy features evinced the sullenness, mixed with the fear, with which a truant schoolboy may be seen to approach his master. As the reluctant dignitary made, with discomposed and sulky look, the obeisance required, the spruchsprecher shook his batton, and proclaimed like a herald, that, in what he was now doing, the Arch-Duke of Austria was not to be held derogating from the rank and privileges of a sovereign prince; to which the jester answered with a sonorous Amen, which provoked much laughter among the by-standers. King Richard looked more than once at the Nubian and his dog; but the former moved not, nor did the latter strain at the leash, so that Richard said to the slave with some scorn, “Thy success in this enterprize, my sable friend, even though thou hast brought thy hound’s sagacity to back thine own, will not, I fear, place thee high in the rank of wizards, or much augment thy merits towards our person.” The Nubian answered, as usual, only by a lowly obeisance. Meantime the troops of the Marquis of Montserrat next passed in order before the King of England. That powerful and wily baron, to make the greater display of his forces, had divided them into two bodies. At the head of the first, consisting of his vassals and followers, and levied from his Syrian possessions, came his brother Enguerrand, and he himself followed, leading on a gallant band of twelve hundred Stradiots, a kind of light cavalry raised by the Venetians in their Dalmatian possessions, and of which they had intrusted the command to the Marquis, with whom the republic had many bonds of connexion. These Stradiots were clothed in a fashion partly European, but partaking chiefly of the Eastern fashion. They wore, indeed, short hauberks, but had over them parti-coloured tunics of rich stuffs, with large wide pantaloons and half-boots. On their heads were straight upright caps, similar to those of the Greeks, and they

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carried small round targets, bows and arrows, scimitars and poniards. They were mounted on horses, carefully selected, and well maintained at the expense of the State of Venice; their saddles and appointments resembled those of the Turks, and they rode in the same manner, with short stirrups and upon a high seat. These troops were of great use in skirmishing with the Arabs, though unable to engage in close conflict, like the iron-sheathed men-atarms of Western and Northern Europe. Before this goodly band came Conrade, in the same garb with the Stradiots, but of such rich stuff that he seemed to blaze with gold and silver, and the milk-white plume fastened in his cap by a clasp of diamonds seemed tall enough to sweep the clouds. The noble steed which he reined bounded and caracoled, and displayed his spirit and agility in a manner which might have troubled a less admirable horseman than the Marquis, who gracefully ruled him with the one hand, while the other displayed the batton, whose authority over the ranks which he led seemed equally absolute. Yet his authority over the Stradiots was more in show than in substance; for there paced beside him, on an ambling palfrey of soberest mood, a little old man, dressed entirely in black, without beard or moustaches, and having an appearance altogether mean and insignificant, when compared with the blaze of splendour around him. But this mean-looking old man was one of those deputies whom the Venetian government sent into camps to overlook the conduct of the generals to whom the leading was consigned, and to maintain that jealous system of espial and control, which had long distinguished the policy of the republic. Conrade, who, by cultivating Richard’s humour, had attained a certain degree of favour with him, no sooner was come within his ken than the King of England descended a step or two to meet him, exclaiming, at the same time, “Ha, Lord Marquis, thou at the head of the fleet Estradiots, and thy black shadow attending thee as usual, whether the sun shines or not!—May not one ask thee whether the rule of the troops remains with the shadow or the substance?” Conrade was commencing his reply with a smile, when Roswal, uttering a furious and savage yell, sprung forwards. The Nubian, at the same time, slipped the leash, and the hound rushing on, leapt upon Conrade’s noble charger, and seizing the Marquis by the throat, pulled him down from the saddle. The plumed rider lay rolling on the sand, and the frightened horse fled in wild career through the camp. “Thy hound hath pulled down the right quarry, I warrant him—” said the King to the Nubian, “and I vow to Saint George that he is a

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stag of ten tynes!—Pluck the dog off, lest he throttle him.” The Ethiopian, accordingly, though not without difficulty, disengaged the dog from Conrade, and fastened him up still highly excited, and struggling in the leash. Meanwhile many crowded to the spot, especially followers of Conrade, and officers of the Stradiots, who, as they saw their leader lie gazing wildly on the sky, raised him up amid a tumultuary cry of—“Cut the slave and his hound to pieces!” But the voice of Richard, loud and sonorous, was heard clear above all their exclamations,—“He dies the death who injures the hound—He hath but done his devoir, after the sagacity with which God and nature have endowed the brave animal.—Stand forward for a false traitor, then, Conrade, called of Montserrat! I impeach thee of treason.” Several of the superior leaders had now come up, and Conrade, vexation and shame and confusion struggling with passion in his manner and voice, exclaimed, “What means this?—With what am I charged?—Why this base usage, and these reproachful terms?—Is this the league of concord which England renewed but so lately?” “Are the Princes of the Crusade turned hares or deers in the eyes of King Richard, that he should slip hounds on them?” said the sepulchral voice of the Grand Master of the Templars. “It must be some wild accident—some fatal mistake—” said Philip of France, who rode up at the same moment. “Some deceit of the Enemy,” said the Archbishop of Tyre. “A stratagem of the Saracens,” cried Henry of Champagne.—“It were well to hang up the dog, and put the slave to the torture.” “Let no man lay hand upon them,” said Richard, “as he loves his own life.—Conrade, stand forth, if thou darest, and deny the accusation which this mute animal hath in his noble instinct brought against thee, of injury done to him, and foul scorn to England.” “I never touched the banner,” said Conrade, hastily. “Thy words betray thee, Conrade!” said Richard; “for how didst thou know, save from conscious guilt, that the question is concerning the banner?” “Hast thou then not kept the camp in turmoil on that and no other score?” answered Conrade; “and doest thou impute to a prince and an ally a crime, which, after all, was probably committed by some paltry felon for the sake of the gold thread? Or wouldst thou now impeach a confederate on the credit of a dog?” By this time the alarm was becoming general, so that Philip of France interposed. “Princes and nobles,” he said, “you speak in presence of those whose swords will soon be at the throats of each other, if they hear

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their leaders at such terms together. In the name of Heaven, let us draw off, each his own troops, into their separate quarters, and ourselves meet an hour hence in the Pavilion of Council, to take some order in this new state of confusion.” “Content,” said King Richard, “though I should have liked to have interrogated that caitiff while his gay doublet was yet besmirched with sand—But the pleasure of France shall be ours in this matter.” The leaders separated as was proposed, each prince placing himself at the head of his own forces; and then was heard on all sides the crying of war-cries, and the sounding of gathering-notes upon bugles and trumpets, by which the different stragglers were summoned to their prince’s banner; and the troops were shortly seen in motion, each taking different routes through the camp to their own quarters. But although any immediate act of violence was thus prevented, yet the incident which had taken place dwelt on every mind; and those foreigners, who had that morning hailed Richard as the worthiest to lead their army, now resumed their prejudices against his pride and intolerance, while the English, conceiving the honour of their country connected with the quarrel, of which various reports had gone abroad, considered the natives of other countries jealous of the fame of England and her King, and disposed to undermine it by the meanest arts of intrigue. Many and various were the rumours spread upon the occasion, and there was one which averred that the Queen and her ladies had been much alarmed by the tumult, and that one of them had swooned. The Council assembled at the appointed hour. Conrade had in the meanwhile laid aside his dishonoured dress, and with it the shame and confusion which, in spite of his talents and promptitude, had at first overwhelmed him, owing to the strangeness of the accident, and suddenness of the accusation. He was now robed like a prince, and entered the Council-chamber attended by the ArchDuke of Austria, the Grand Masters both of the Temple and of the Order of Saint John, and several other potentates, who made a show of supporting him and defending his cause, chiefly perhaps from political motives, or because they themselves nourished a personal enmity against Richard. This appearance of union in favour of Conrade was far from influencing the King of England. He entered the Council with his usual indifference of manner, and in the same dress in which he had just alighted from horseback. He cast a careless and somewhat scornful glance on the leaders, who had with studied affectation arranged themselves around Conrade, as if owning his cause, and in the most direct terms charged Conrade of Montserrat with having

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stolen the Banner of England, and wounded the faithful animal who stood in its defence. Conrade arose boldly to answer, and in despite, as he expressed himself, of man and brute, king or dog, avouched his innocence of the crime charged. “Brother of England,” said Philip, who willingly assumed the character of moderator of the assembly, “this is an unusual impeachment. We do not hear you avouch your own knowledge of this matter, farther than your belief resting upon the demeanour of this hound towards the Marquis of Montserrat. Surely the word of a knight and a prince should bear him out against the barking of a cur?” “Royal brother,” returned Richard, “recollect that the Almighty, who gave the dog to be companion of our pleasures and our toils, hath invested him with a nature noble and incapable of deceit. He forgets neither friend nor foe—remembers, and with accuracy, both benefit and injury. He hath a share of man’s intelligence, but no share of man’s falsehood. You will bribe a soldier to slay a man with his sword, or a witness to take life by false accusation; but you cannot make a hound tear his benefactor—he is the friend of man, save when man justly incurs his enmity. Dress yonder Marquis in what peacock-robes you will—disguise his appearance—alter his complexion with drugs and washes—hide him amidst an hundred men—I will yet pawn my sceptre that the hound detects him, and expresses his resentment as you have this day beheld. This is no new incident, although a strange one. Murderers and robbers have been, ere now, convicted, and suffered death under such evidence, and men have said that the finger of God was in it. In thine own land, royal brother, and upon such an occasion, the matter was tried by a solemn duel betwixt the man and the dog, as appellant and defendant in a challenge of murder—the dog was victorious, the man was punished, and the crime was confessed. Credit me, royal brother, that hidden crimes have often been brought to light by the testimony even of inanimate substances, not to mention animals far inferior in instinctive sagacity to the dog, who is the friend and companion of our race.” “Such a duel there hath indeed been, royal brother,” answered Philip, “and that in the reign of one of our predecessors, to whom God be gracious. But it was in the olden time, nor can we hold it a precedent fitting for this occasion. The defendant in that case was a private gentleman, of small rank or respect; his offensive weapons were only a club, his defensive a leathern jerkin. But we cannot degrade a prince to such arms, or such a combat.”

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“I never meant that you should,” said King Richard; “it were foul play to hazard the good hound’s life against that of such a doublefaced traitor as this Conrade hath proved himself—But there lies our own glove—We appeal him to the combat in respect of the evidence we brought forth against him—A king, at least, is more than the mate of a marquis.” Conrade made no hasty effort to seize on the pledge which Richard cast into the middle of the assembly, and King Philip had time to reply, ere the Marquis made a motion to lift the glove. “A king,” said he of France, “is as much more than match for the Marquis Conrade, as a dog would be less. Royal Richard, this cannot be permitted. You are the leader of our expedition—the sword and buckler of Christendom.” “I protest against such a combat,” said the Venetian proveditore, “until the King of England shall have repaid the fifty thousand bezants which he is indebted to the republic. It is enough to be threatened with loss of our debt, should our debtor fall by the hands of the pagans, without the additional risk of his being slain in brawls amongst Christians, concerning dogs and banners.” “And I,” said William with the Long Sword, Earl of Salisbury, “protest in my turn against my royal brother perilling his life, which is the property of the people of England, in such a cause.—Here, noble brother, receive back your glove, and think only as if the wind had blown it from your hand—Mine shall lie in its stead—A king’s son, though with the bar sinister on his shield, is at least a match for this marmozet of a marquis.” “Princes and nobles,” said Conrade, “I will not accept of King Richard’s defiance. He hath been chosen our leader against the Saracens, and if his conscience can answer the accusation of provoking an ally to the field on a quarrel so frivolous, mine, at least, cannot endure the reproach of accepting it. But touching his bastard brother, William of Woodstock, or against any other who shall adopt, or shall dare to stand godfather to this most false charge, I will defend my honour in the lists, and prove whomsoever impeaches it a false liar.” “The Marquis of Montserrat,” said the Archbishop of Tyre, “hath spoken like a wise and moderate gentleman, and methinks this controversy might, without dishonour to any party, end at this point.” “Methinks it might so terminate,” said the King of France, “provided King Richard will recal his accusation, as made upon over slight grounds.” “Philip of France,” answered Coeur de Lion, “my words shall never do my thoughts so much injury. I have charged yonder Conrade as a thief, who, under cloud of night, stole from its place the emblem

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of England’s dignity. I still believe and charge him to be such—and when a day is appointed for the combat, doubt not that, since Conrade declines to meet us in person, I will find a champion to appear in support of my challenge; for thou, William, must not thrust thy long sword into this quarrel without our special licence.” “Since my rank makes me arbiter in this most unhappy quarrel,” said Philip of France, “I appoint the fifth day from hence for the decision thereof, by way of combat, according to knightly usage— Richard, King of England, to appear by his champion as appellant, and Conrade, Marquis of Montserrat, in his own person, as defendant. Yet I own, I know not where to find neutral ground where such a quarrel may be fought out, for it must not be in the neighbourhood of this camp, where the soldiers would make faction on the different sides.” “It were well,” said Richard, “to apply to the generosity of the royal Saladin, since, heathen as he is, I have never known knight more fulfilled of nobleness, or to whose good faith we may so peremptorily intrust ourselves. I speak then for those who may be doubtful of mishap—for myself, wherever I see my foe, I make that spot my battle-ground.” “Be it so,” said Philip; “we will make this matter known to Saladin, although it be showing to an enemy the unhappy spirit of discord which we would willingly hide from even ourselves, were it possible. Meanwhile, I dismiss this assembly, and charge you all, as Christian men and noble knights, that ye let this unhappy feud breed no farther brawling in the camp, but regard it as a matter solemnly referred to the judgment of God, to whom each of you should pray that he will dispose of victory in the combat according to the truth of the quarrel; and therewith may His will be done!” “Amen, amen!” was answered on all sides; while the Templar whispered the Marquis, “Conrade, wilt thou not add a petition to be delivered from the power of the dog, as the Psalmist hath it?” “Peace thou,” replied the Marquis; “there is a revealing demon abroad, which may report, amongst other tidings, how far thou doest carry the motto of thy order—Feriatur Leo.” “Thou wilt stand the brunt of challenge?” said the Templar. “Doubt me not,” said Conrade. “I would not, indeed, have willingly met the iron arm of Richard himself, and I shame not to confess that I rejoice to be free of his encounter. But, from his bastard brother downward, the man breathes not in his ranks whom I fear to meet.” “It is well you are so confident,” continued the Templar; “and in that case, the fangs of yonder hound have done more to dissolve this league of princes, than either thy devices, or the dagger of the

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Charegite. Seest thou how, under a brow studiously overclouded, Philip cannot conceal the satisfaction which he feels at the prospect of release from the alliance which sat heavy on him? Mark how Henry of Champagne smiles to himself, like a sparkling goblet of his own wine—And see the chuckling delight of Austria, who thinks his quarrel is about to be avenged, without risk or trouble of his own. Hush, he approaches.—A most grievous chance, most royal Austria, that these breaches in the walls of our Zion——” “If thou meanst this crusade,” replied the Duke, “I would it were crumbled to pieces, and each were safe at home.—I speak this in confidence.” “But,” said the Marquis of Montserrat, “to think this disunion should be made by the hands of King Richard, for whose pleasure we have been contented to endure so much, and to whom we have been as submissive as slaves to a master, in hopes that he would use his valour against our enemies, instead of exercising it upon our friends.” “I see not that he is so much more valorous than others,” said the Arch-Duke. “I believe, had the noble Marquis met him in the lists, he would have had the better; for, though the islander deals heavy blows with the pole-axe, he is not so very dexterous with the lance. I should have cared little to have met him myself on our old quarrel, had the weal of Christendom permitted two sovereign princes to breathe themselves in the lists—And if thou desirest it, noble Marquis, I will myself be your godfather in this combat.” “And I also,” said the Grand Master. “Come, then, and take your nooning in our tent, noble sirs,” said the Duke, “and we’ll speak of this business, over some right Nierenstein.” They entered together accordingly. “What said our patron and these great folks together?” said Jonas Schwanker to his companion, the spruch-sprecher, who had used the freedom to press nigh to his master when the Council was dismissed, while the jester waited at a more respectful distance. “Servant of Folly,” said the spruch-sprecher, “moderate thy curiosity —it beseems not that I should tell to thee the counsels of our master.” “Man of wisdom, you mistake,” answered Jonas; “we are both the constant attendants on our patron, and it concerns us alike to know whether thou or I—Wisdom or Folly—have the deeper interest in him.” “He told to the Marquis,” answered the spruch-sprecher, “and to the Grand Master, that he was aweary of these wars, and would be glad he was safe at home.”

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“That is a drawn cast, and counts for nothing in the game,” said the jester; “it was most wise to think thus, but great folly to tell it to others—proceed.” “Ha, hem!” said the spruch-sprecher; “he next said to them, that Richard was not more valorous than others, or over dexterous in the tilt-yard.” “Woodcock of my side,” said Schwanker; “this was egregious folly. What next?” “Nay, I am something oblivious,” replied the man of wisdom— “he invited them to a goblet of Nierenstein.” “That hath a show of wisdom in it,” said Jonas, “thou mayst mark it to thy credit in the meantime; but an he drink too much, as is most likely, I will have it pass to mine. Anything more?” “Nothing worth memory,” answered the orator, “only he wished he had taken the occasion to meet Richard in the lists.” “Out upon it—out upon it!” said Jonas—“this is such dotage of folly, that I am well nigh ashamed of winning the game by it— Ne’ertheless, fool as he is, we will follow him, most sage spruchsprecher, and have our share of the wine of Nierenstein.”

Chapter Twelve Yet this inconstancy is such, As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, love, so much, Loved I not honour more. M       ’s Lines

W    King Richard returned to his tent, he commanded the Nubian to be brought before him. He entered with his usual ceremonial reverence, and, having prostrated himself, remained standing before the King, in the attitude of a slave awaiting the orders of his master. It was perhaps well for him, that the preservation of his character required his eyes to be fixed on the ground, since the keen glance with which Richard for some time surveyed him in silence, would, if fully encountered, have been difficult to sustain. “Thou canst well of wood-craft,” said the King, after a pause, “and hast started thy game and brought him to bay, as ably as if Tristrem himself had taught thee. But this is not all—he must be brought down at force. I myself would have liked to have levelled my hunting-spear at him. There are, it seems, respects which prevent this—thou art about to return to the camp of the Soldan, bearing a letter requiring of his courtesy to appoint neutral ground for this deed of chivalry, and, should it consist with his pleasure, to concur

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with us in witnessing it. Now, speaking conjecturally, we think thou mayst find in that camp some cavalier, who, for the love of truth, and his own augmentation of honour, will do battle with this same traitor of Montserrat.” The Nubian raised his eyes and fixed them on the King with a look of eager ardour; then raised them to Heaven with such solemn gratitude, that the water soon glistened in them—then bent his head, as affirming what Richard desired, and resumed his usual posture of submissive attention. “It is well,” said the King; “and I see thy desire to oblige me in this matter. And herein, I must needs say, lies the excellence of such a servant as thou, who hast not speech either to debate our purpose, or to require explanation of what we have determined. An English serving-man, in thy place, had given me his dogged advice to trust the combat with some good lance of my household, who, from my brother Long-Sword downwards, are all on fire to do battle in my cause; and a chattering Frenchman had made a thousand attempts to discover wherefore I look for a champion from the camp of the infidels. But thou, my silent agent, canst do mine errand without questioning or comprehending it—with thee to hear is to obey.” A bend of the body, and a genuflection, were the appropriate answer of the Ethiopian to these observations. “And now to another point,” said the King, and speaking suddenly and rapidly.—“Have you yet seen Edith Plantagenet?” The mute looked up as in the act of being about to speak,—nay, his lips had begun to utter a distinct negative,—when the abortive attempt died away in the imperfect murmurs of the dumb. “Why, lo you there!” said the King. “The very sound of the name of a royal maiden, of beauty so surpassing as that of our lovely cousin, seems to have power enough to make the well nigh dumb speak. What miracles then might her eye have wrought? I will make the experiment, friend slave—thou shalt see this choice beauty of our court, and do the errand of the princely Soldan.” Again a joyful glance—again a genuflection—but, as he arose, the King laid his hand heavily on his shoulder, and proceeded with stern gravity thus.—“Let me in one thing warn you, my sable envoy. Even if thou shouldst feel that the kindly influence of her whom thou art soon to behold should loosen the bonds of thy tongue, presently imprisoned, as the good Soldan expresses it, within the ivory walls of its castle, beware how thou changest thy taciturn character, or utterest a word in her presence, even if thy powers of utterance were to be miraculously restored. Believe me, that I should have thy tongue extracted by the roots, and its ivory palace, that is, I

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presume, its range of teeth, drawn out one by one. Wherefore, be wise and silent still.” The Nubian, so soon as the King had removed his heavy grasp from his shoulder, bent his head, and laid his hand on his lips, in token of silent obedience. But Richard again laid his hand on him more gently, and added, “This behest we lay on thee as a slave—Wert thou knight and gentleman, we would require thine honour in pledge of thy silence, which is one especial condition of our present trust.” The Ethiopian raised his body proudly erect, looked full at the King, and laid his right hand on his heart. Richard then summoned his chamberlain. “Go, Neville,” he said, “with this slave, to the tent of our royal consort, and say it is our pleasure that he have an audience—a private audience—of our cousin Edith. He is charged with a commission to her. Thou canst show him the way also, in case he requires thy guidance, though thou mayst have observed it is wonderful how familiar he already seems to be with the purlieus of our camp.—And thou, too, friend Ethiop,” the King continued, “what thou doest do quickly, and return hither within the half hour.” “I stand discovered,” thought the seeming Nubian, as, with downcast looks and folded arms, he followed the hasty stride of Neville towards the tent of Queen Berengaria.—“I stand undoubtedly discovered and unfolded to King Richard, yet I cannot perceive that his resentment is hot against me. If I understand his words, and surely it is impossible to misinterpret them, he gives me a noble chance of redeeming my honour upon the crest of this false Marquis, whose guilt I read in his craven eye and quivering lip, when the charge was made against him. Roswal, faithfully hast thou served thy master, and most dearly shall thy wrong be avenged!—But what is the meaning of my present permission to look upon her, whom I had despaired to see again? And why or how can the royal Plantagenet consent that I should see his divine kinswoman, either as the messenger of the heathen Saladin, or as the guilty exile whom he so lately expelled from his camp—his audacious avowal of the affection which is his pride, being the greatest enhancement of his guilt? That Richard should consent to her receiving a letter from an infidel lover, by the hands of one of such disproportioned rank, are either of them circumstances equally incredible, and, at the same time, inconsistent with each other. But Richard, when unmoved by his heady passions, is liberal, generous, and truly noble, and as such I will deal with him, and act according to his instructions, direct or implied, seeking to know no more than may gradually unfold itself

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without my officious inquiry. To him who has given me so brave an opportunity to vindicate my tarnished honour, I owe acquiescence and obedience, and, painful as it may be, the debt shall be paid. And yet,”—thus the proud swelling of his heart farther suggested,— “Coeur de Lion, as he is called, might have measured the feelings of others by his own. I urge an address to his kinswoman—I, who never spoke word to her when I took a royal prize from her hand— when I was accounted not the lowest in feats of chivalry among the defenders of the Cross—I approach her when in a base disguise, and in a servile habit—and, alas! when my actual condition is that of a slave, with a spot of dishonour on that which was once my shield— I do this—he little knows me—Yet I thank him for the opportunity which may make us all better acquainted with each other.” As he arrived at this conclusion, they paused before the entrance of the Queen’s pavilion. They were of course admitted by the guards, and Neville, leaving the Nubian in a small apartment or anti-chamber, which was but too well remembered by him, passed into that which was used as the Queen’s presence chamber. He communicated his royal master’s pleasure in a low and respectful tone of voice, very different from the bluntness of Thomas de Vaux, to whom Richard was everything, and the rest of the court, including Berengaria herself, was nothing. A burst of laughter followed the annunciation of his errand. “And what like is the Nubian slave, who comes ambassador on such an errand from the Soldan?—a negro, De Neville, is he not?” said a female voice, easily recognized for that of Berengaria. “A negro is he not, De Neville, with black skin, a head curled like a ram’s, a flat nose, and blubber lips—ha, worthy Sir Henry?” “Let not your Grace forget the shin-bones,” said another voice, “bent outwards like the edge of a Saracen scimitar.” “Rather like the outward side of the bow of Cupid, since he comes upon a lover’s errand,” said the Queen. “Gentle Neville, thou art ever prompt to pleasure us poor women, who have so little here to pass away our idle moments. We must see this messenger of love. Turks and Moors have I seen many, but negro never.” “I am created to obey your Grace’s commands, so you will bear me out with my sovereign for doing so,” answered the debonair knight. “Yet, let me assure your Grace, you will see somewhat different from what you expect.” “So much the better—uglier yet than our imaginations can fancy, yet the chosen love-messenger of this gallant Soldan.” “Gracious Madam,” said the Lady Calista, “may I implore you would permit the good knight to carry this messenger straight to the

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Lady Edith, to whom his credentials are addressed? We have already escaped hardly for such a frolic.” “Escaped?” repeated the Queen scornfully. “Yet thou mayst be right, Calista, in thy caution—let this Nubian, as thou callest him, first do his errand to our cousin—Besides, he is mute too—is he not?” “He is, gracious Madam,” answered the knight. “Royal sport have these Eastern ladies,” said Berengaria, “attended by those before whom they say anything, yet who can report nothing. Whereas in our camp, as the Prelate of Saint Jude’s is wont to say, a bird of the air will carry the matter.” “Because,” said Neville, “your Grace forgets that you speak within canvass walls.” The voices sunk on this observation, and after a little whispering, the English knight again returned to the Ethiopian, and made him a sign to follow. He did so, and Neville conducted him to a pavilion, pitched somewhat apart from that of the Queen, for the accommodation, it seemed, of the Lady Edith and her attendants. One of her Coptick maidens received the message communicated by Sir Henry Neville, and, in the space of a very few minutes, the seeming Nubian was ushered into Edith’s presence, while Neville was left on the outside of the tent. The slave who introduced him withdrew on a signal from her mistress, and it was with humiliation, not of the posture only, but of the very inmost soul, that the unfortunate knight, thus strangely disguised, threw himself on one knee, with looks bent on the ground, and arms folded on his bosom, like a criminal who expects his doom. Edith was clad in the same manner as when she received King Richard, her long transparent dark veil hanging around her like the shade of a summer night on a beautiful landscape, disguising and rendering obscure the beauties which it could not hide. She held in her hand a silver lamp, fed with some aromatic spirit, which burned with unusual brightness. When Edith came within a step of the kneeling and motionless slave, she held the light towards his face, as if to peruse his features more attentively—then turned from him, and placed her lamp so as to throw the shadow of his face in profile upon the curtain which hung beside. She at length spoke in a voice composed, yet deeply sorrowful. “Is it you?—Is it indeed you, brave Knight of the Leopard— gallant Sir Kenneth of Scotland—-is it indeed you?—thus servilely disguised—thus surrounded by an hundred dangers?” At hearing the tones of his lady’s voice thus unexpectedly addressed to him, and in a tone of compassion approaching to

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tenderness, a corresponding reply rushed to the knight’s lips, and scarce could Richard’s commands, and his own promised silence, prevent his answering, that the sight he saw, the sounds he just heard, were sufficient to recompense the slavery of a life, and dangers which threatened that life every hour. He did recollect himself, however, and a deep and impassioned sigh was his only reply to the high-born Edith’s question. “I see—I know I have guessed right—” continued Edith. “I marked you from your first appearance near the platform on which I stood with the Queen. I knew, too, your valiant hound. She is no true lady, and is unworthy of the service of such a knight as thou art, from whom disguises of dress or hue could conceal a faithful servant. Speak, then, without fear, to Edith Plantagenet. She knows how to grace in adversity the good knight who served, honoured, and did deeds of arms in her name when fortune befriended him.—Still silent! Is it fear or shame that keeps thee mute? Fear should be unknown to thee; and for shame, let it remain with those who wronged thee.” The knight, in despair at being obliged to play the mute in an interview so interesting, could only express his mortification by sighing deeply, and laying his finger upon his lips. Edith stepped back, as if somewhat displeased. “What?” she said, “the Asiatic mute in very deed, as well as in attire? This I looked not for—Or thou mayst scorn me, perhaps, for thus boldly acknowledging that I have heedfully observed the homage thou hast paid me. Hold no unworthy thoughts of Edith on that account. She knows well the bounds which reserve and modesty prescribe to high-born maidens, and she knows when and how far these should give place to gratitude—to a sincere desire that it were in her power to repay services and repair injuries, arising from the devotion which a good knight bore towards her.—Why fold thy hands together, and wring them with so much passion?—Can it be,” she added, shrinking back at the idea, “that their cruelty has actually deprived thee of speech—thou shakest thy head—be it a spell—be it obstinacy—I question thee no further, but leave thee to do thine errand after thine own fashion. I also can be mute.” The disguised knight made an action as if at once lamenting his own condition, and deprecating her displeasure, while at the same time he presented to her, wrapped, as usual, in fine silk and cloth of gold, the letter of the Soldan. She took it, surveyed it carelessly, then laid it aside, and bending her eyes once more on the knight, she said in a low tone—“Not even a word to do thine errand to me?” He pressed both his hands to his brow, as if to intimate the pain

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which he felt at being unable to obey her; but she turned from him in anger. “Begone!” she said. “I have spoken enough—too much—to one who will not waste on me a word in reply. Begone!—and say, if I have wronged thee, I have done penance; for if I have been the unhappy means of dragging thee down from a station of honour, I have, in this interview, forgotten my own worth, and lowered myself in thy eyes and in my own.” She covered her eyes with her hand, and seemed deeply agitated. Kenneth would have approached, but she waved him back. “Stand off, thou whose soul Heaven hath suited to its new station! Aught less dull and fearful than a slavish mute had spoken a word of gratitude, were it but to reconcile me to my own degradation. Why pause you?—begone!” The disguised knight almost involuntarily looked towards the letter as an apology for protracting his stay. She snatched it up, saying in a tone of irony and contempt, “I had forgotten—the dutiful slave waits an answer to his message.—How’s this—from the Soldan!” She hastily ran over the contents, which were expressed both in Arabic and French, and when she had done, she laughed in bitter anger. “Now this passes imagination!” she said; “no jongleur can show so deft a transmutation—he can convert zecchins and bezants into doits and maravedies; but can his art convert a Christian knight, once the first among the bravest of the Holy Crusade, into the dustkissing slave of a heathen Soldan—the bearer of his insolent proposals to a Christian maiden—nay, forgetting the laws of honourable chivalry, as well as of religion—But it avails not talking to the willing slave of a heathen hound—Tell your master, when his scourge shall have found thee a tongue, that which thou hast seen me do.”—So saying, she threw the Soldan’s letter on the ground, and placed her foot upon it—“And say to him, that Edith Plantagenet scorns the homage of an unchristened Pagan.” With these words she was about to shoot from the knight, when, kneeling at her feet in bitter agony, he ventured to lay his hand upon her robe and oppose her departure. “Heardst thou not what I said, dull slave?” she said, turning short round on him, and speaking with emphasis; “tell the heathen Soldan, thy master, that I scorn his suit as much as I despise the prostrations of a worthless renegade to religion and chivalry—to God and to his lady!” So saying she burst from him, tore her garment from his grasp, and left the tent.

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

Chapter Thirteen “The tears I shed must ever fall! I weep not for an absent swain, For time may happier hours recall, And parted lovers meet again. “I weep not for the silent dead, Their pains are past, their sorrows o’er, And those they loved their steps must tread, When death shall join to part no more.” But worse than absence, worse than death, She wept her lover’s sullied fame, And fired with all the pride of birth, She wept a soldier’s injured name. Ballad

T        and bold voice of Richard was heard in joyous gratulation. “Thomas de Vaux, stout Tom of the Gills, by the hand of King Henry thou art welcome to me as ever was flask of wine to a jolly toper! I should scarce have known how to order my battle array, unless I had thy bulky form in mine eye as a landmark to form my ranks upon. We shall have blows anon, Thomas, if the saints be gracious to us; and had we fought in thine absence, I would have looked to hear of thy being found hanging upon an elder-tree.” “I should have borne my disappointment with more Christian patience, I trust,” said Thomas de Vaux, “than to have died the death of an apostate. But I thank your Grace for my welcome, which is the more generous as it respects a banquet of blows, of which, saving your pleasure, you are ever too apt to engross the larger share; but here have I brought one to whom your Grace will, I know, give a yet warmer welcome.” The person who now stepped forward to make obeisance to Rich-

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ard, was a young man of low stature and slight form. His dress was as modest as his figure was unimpressive, but he bore on his bonnet a gold buckle, with a gem, the lustre of which could only be rivalled by the brilliancy of the eye which the bonnet shaded. It was the only striking feature in his countenance; but when once noticed, it uniformly made a strong impression on the spectator. About his neck there hung in a scarf of sky-blue silk a wrest, as it was called,—that is, the key with which a harp is tuned, and which was of solid gold. This personage would have kneeled reverently to Richard, but the monarch raised him in joyful haste, pressed him to his bosom warmly, and kissed him on either side of the face. “Blondel de Nesle!” he exclaimed joyfully—“welcome from Cyprus, my king of minstrels! welcome to the King of England, who rates not his own dignity more highly than he does thine. I have been sick, man, and, by my soul, I believe it was for lack of thee; for, were I half way to the gate of Heaven, methinks thy strains could call me back. And what news, my gentle master, from the land of the lyre? Anything fresh from the trouveurs of Provence?—anything from the minstrels of merry Normandy?—above all, hast thou thyself been busy?—But I need not ask thee—thou canst not be idle if thou wouldst—thy noble qualities are like a fire burning within, and compel thee to pour thyself out in music and song.” “Something I have learned, and something I have done, noble King,” answered the celebrated Blondel, with a retiring modesty, which all Richard’s enthusiastic admiration of his skill had been unable to banish. “We will hear thee, man—we will hear thee instantly,” said the King;—then touching Blondel’s shoulder kindly, he added, “that is, if thou art not fatigued with thy journey; for I would sooner ride my best horse to death, than injure a note of thy voice.” “My voice is, as ever, at the service of my royal patron,” said Blondel; “but your Majesty,” he added, looking at some papers on the table, “seems more importantly engaged, and the hour waxes late.” “Not a whit, man, not a whit, my dearest Blondel. I did but sketch an array of battle against the Saracens, a thing of a moment—almost as soon done as the routing of them.” “Methinks, however,” said Thomas de Vaux, “it were not unfit to inquire what soldiers your Grace hath to array. I bring reports on that subject from Ascalon.” “Thou art a mule, Thomas,” said the King—“a very mule for dulness and obstinacy!—Come, nobles—a hall—a hall!—range ye around him—Give Blondel the tabouret—Where is his harp-bearer?

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—or, soft—lend him my harp, his own may be deranged by the journey.” “I would your Grace would take my report,” said Thomas de Vaux. “I have ridden far, and have more list to my bed than to have my ears tickled.” “Thy ears tickled!” said the King; “that must be with a woodcock’s feather, and not with sweet sounds. Hark thee, Thomas, do thine ears know the singing of Blondel from the braying of an ass?” “In faith, my liege,” replied Thomas, “I cannot well say; but setting Blondel out of the question, who is a born gentleman, and doubtless of high acquirements, I shall never, for the sake of your Grace’s question, look on a minstrel, but I will think upon an ass.” “And might not your manners,” said Richard, “have excepted me, who am a gentleman born as well as Blondel, and like him a guildbrother of the Joyeuse Science?” “Your Grace should remember,” said De Vaux, smiling, “that ’tis useless asking for manners from a mule.” “Most truly spoken,” said the King; “from such an ill-conditioned brute as thou art, one should ever look for more kicks than compliments—But come hither, master mule, and be unloaded, that thou mayst get thee to thy litter, without any music being wasted on thee. —Meantime do thou, good brother of Salisbury, go to our consort’s tent, and tell her that Blondel has arrived, with his budget fraught with the newest minstrelsy. Bid her come hither instantly, and do thou escort her, and see that our cousin, Edith Plantagenet, remain not behind.” His eye then rested for a moment on the seeming Nubian, with that expression of doubtful meaning, which his countenance usually displayed when he looked at him. “Ha, our silent and secret messenger returned?—Stand up, slave, behind the back of De Neville, and thou shalt hear presently sounds which will make thee bless God that he afflicted thee rather with dumbness than deafness.” So saying, he turned from the rest of the company towards De Vaux, and plunged instantly into the military details which that baron laid before him. About the time that the Lord of Gilsland had finished his audience, a messenger announced that the Queen and her attendants were approaching the royal tent. “A flask of wine, ho!” said the King; “of old King Isaac’s long-saved Cyprus, which we won when we stormed Famagousta—fill to the stout Lord of Gilsland, gentles—a more careful and faithful servant never had any prince.” “I am glad,” said Thomas de Vaux, “that your Grace finds the

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mule a useful slave, though his voice be less musical than horse-hair or wire.” “What, thou canst not yet digest that quip of the mule?” said Richard. “Wash it down with a brimming flagon, man, or thou wilt choke upon it.—Why, so—well pulled!—and now I will tell thee, thou art a soldier as well as I, and we must brook each other’s jests in the hall, as each other’s blows in the tourney, and love each other the better the harder we hit. By my faith, if thou didst not hit me as hard as I did thee in our late encounter, thou gavest all thy wit to the thrust. But here lies the difference betwixt thee and Blondel. Thou art but my comrade—I might say my pupil—in the art of war; Blondel is my master in the science of minstrelsy and music. To thee I permit the freedom of intimacy—to him I must do reverence, as to my superior in his art. Come, man, be not peevish, but remain and hear our glee.” “To see your Majesty in such cheerful mood,” said the Lord of Gilsland, “by my faith, I could remain till Blondel had achieved the great Romance of King Arthur, which lasts for three days.” “We will not tax your patience so deeply,” said the King. “But see, yonder glare of torches without shows that our consort approaches—Away to receive her, man, and win thyself grace in the brightest eyes of Christendom.—Nay, never stop to adjust thy cloak. See, thou hast let Neville come between the wind and the sails of thy galley.” “He was never before me in the field of battle,” said De Vaux, not greatly pleased to see himself anticipated by the more active service of the chamberlain. “No, neither he nor any one went before thee there, my good Tom of the Gills,” said the King, “unless it was ourself, now and then.” “Ay, my liege,” said De Vaux, “and let us do justice to the unfortunate;—your unhappy Knight of the Leopard hath been before me, too, at a season; for, look you, he weighs less on horseback, and so”—— “Hush!” said the King, interrupting him in a peremptory tone, “not a word of him”—and instantly stepped forward to greet his royal consort; and when he had done so, he presented to her Blondel, as king of minstrelsy, and his master in the gay science. Berengaria, who well knew that her royal husband’s passion for poetry and music almost equalled his appetite for warlike fame, and that Blondel was his especial favourite, took anxious care to receive him with all the flattering distinctions due to one whom the King delighted to honour. Yet it was evident, that, though Blondel made suitable

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returns to the compliments showered on him something too abundantly by the royal beauty, he owned with deeper reverence and more humble gratitude the simple and graceful welcome of Edith, whose kindly greeting appeared to him, perhaps, sincere in proportion to its brevity and simplicity. Both the Queen and her royal husband were aware of this distinction, and Richard, seeing his consort somewhat piqued at the preference assigned to his cousin, by which perhaps he himself did not feel much gratified, said in the hearing of both,—“We minstrels, Berengaria, as thou mayst see by the bearing of our master Blondel, pay more reverence to a severe judge, like our kinswoman, than to a kindly partial friend, like thyself, who is willing to take our merits upon trust.” Edith was moved by this sarcasm of her royal kinsman, and hesitated not to reply, that, “To be a harsh and severe judge, was not an attribute proper to her alone of all the Plantagenets.” She had perhaps said more, having some touch of the temper of that house, which, deriving their name and cognizance from the lowly broom (Planta Genista), assumed as an emblem of humility, were perhaps one of the proudest families that ever ruled in England. But her eye, when kindling in her reply, suddenly caught those of the Nubian, although he endeavoured to conceal himself behind the nobles who were present, and she sunk upon a seat, turning so pale, that the Queen Berengaria deemed herself obliged to call for water and essences, and to go through the other ceremonies appropriate to a lady’s swoon. Richard, who better estimated Edith’s strength of mind, called to Blondel to assume his seat and commence his lay, declaring, that minstrelsy was worth every other recipe to recall a Plantagenet to life. “Sing us,” he said, “that song of the Bloody Vest, of which thou didst formerly give me the argument, ere I left Cyprus; thou must be perfect in it by this time, or, as our yeomen say, thy bow is broken.” The anxious eye of the minstrel, however, dwelt on Edith, and it was not till he observed her returning colour that he obeyed the repeated commands of the King. Then, accompanying his voice with the harp, so as to grace, but yet not drown, the sense of what he sung, he chanted in a sort of recitative, one of those ancient adventures of love and knighthood, which were wont of yore to win the public attention. So soon as he began to prelude, the insignificance of his personal appearance seemed to disappear, and his countenance glowed with energy and inspiration. His full, manly, mellow voice, so absolutely under command of the purest taste, thrilled on every ear, and to every heart. Richard, rejoiced as after victory, called out

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the appropriate summons for silence, Listen, lords, in bower and hall;

while, with the zeal of a patron at once and a pupil, he arranged the circle around, and hushed them into silence; and he himself sat down with an air of expectation and interest, not altogether unmixed with the gravity of the professed critic. The courtiers turned their eyes on the King, that they might be ready to trace and imitate the emotions his features should express, and Thomas de Vaux yawned tremendously, as one who submitted unwillingly to a tiresome penance. The song of Blondel was of course in the Norman language; but the verses which follow express its meaning and its manner. The Bloody Vest ’Twas near the fair city of Benevent, When the sun was setting on bough and bent, And knights were preparing in bower and tent, On the eve of the Baptist’s tournament; When in Lincoln green a stripling gent, Well seeming a page by a princess sent, Wander’d the camp, and, still as he went, Inquired for the Englishman, Thomas a Kent. Far hath he fared, and farther must fare, Till he finds his pavilion nor stately nor rare,— Little save iron and steel was there; And, as lacking the coin to pay armourer’s care, With his sinewy arms to the shoulders bare, The good knight with hammer and file did repair The mail that to-morrow must see him wear, For the honour of Saint John and his lady fair. “Thus speaks my lady,” the page said he, And the knight bent lowly both head and knee, “She is Benevent’s princess so high in degree, And thou art as lowly as knight may well be— He that would climb so lofty a tree, Or spring such a gulph as divides her from thee, Must dare some high deed, by which all men may see His ambition is back’d by his high chivalrie. “Therefore thus speaks my lady,” the fair page he said, And the knight lowly louted with hand and with head, “Fling aside the good armour in which thou art clad, And don thou this weed of her night-gear instead, For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread; And charge, thus attired, in the tournament dread, And fight as thy wont is where most blood is shed, And bring honour away, or remain with the dead.” Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in his breast, The knight the weed hath taken, and reverently hath kiss’d;—

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“Now blessed be the moment, the messenger be blest! Much honour’d do I hold me in my lady’s high behest; And say unto my lady, in this dear night-weed dress’d, To the firmest armed champion I will not vail my crest, But if I live and bear me well ’tis her turn to take the test.” Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of the Lay of the Bloody Vest.

“Thou hast changed the measure upon us unawares in that last couplet, my Blondel?” said the King. “Most true, my lord,” said Blondel. “I rendered the verses from the Italian of an old harper, whom I met in Cyprus, and nor have I had time either to translate it accurately, or commit it to memory, I am fain to supply gaps in the music and the verse as I can upon the spur of the moment, as you see boors mend a quickset fence with a faggot.” “Nay, on my faith,” said the King, “I like these rattling rolling Alexandrines—methinks they come more twangingly off to the music than that briefer measure.” “Both are licensed, as is well known to your Grace,” answered Blondel. “They are so, Blondel,” said Richard; “yet methinks the scene, where there is like to be fighting, will go best on in these same thundering Alexandrines, which sound like the charge of cavalry; while the other measure is but like the sidelong amble of a lady’s palfrey.” “It shall be as your Grace pleases,” replied Blondel, and began again to prelude. “Nay, first cherish thy fancy with a cup of fiery Chios wine,” said the King; “and hark thee, I would have thee fling away that newfangled restriction of thine, of terminating in accurate and similar rhymes.—They are a constraint on thy flow of fancy, and make thee resemble a man dancing in fetters.” “The fetters are easily flung off, at least,” said Blondel, again sweeping his fingers over the strings, as one who would rather have played than listened to criticism. “But why put them on, man?” continued the King—“Wherefore thrust thy genius into iron bracelets? I marvel how you got forward at all—I am sure I should not have been able to compose a stanza in yonder hampered measure.” Blondel looked down and busied himself with the strings of his harp, to hide an involuntary smile which crept over his features; but it escaped not Richard’s observation. “By my faith, thou laughst at me, Blondel,” he said; “and, in good truth, every man deserves it who presumes to play the master when he should be the pupil—But we kings get bad habits of self-opinion.

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—Come, on with thy lay, dearest Blondel—on after thine own fashion, better than aught that we can suggest, though we must needs be talking.” Blondel resumed the lay, but, as extemporaneous composition was familiar to him, he failed not to comply with the King’s hints, and was perhaps not displeased to show with how much ease he could new-model a poem, even while in the act of recitation. The Bloody Vest F    S     The Baptist’s fair morrow beheld gallant feats— There was winning of honour, and losing of seats— There was hewing with falchions, and splintering of staves, The victors won glory, the vanquish’d won graves. O, many a knight there fought bravely and well, Yet one was accounted his peers to excel, And ’twas he whose sole armour on body and breast, Seem’d the weed of a damsel when bound for her rest. There were some dealt him wounds that were bloody and sore, But others respected his plight and forbore. “It is some oath of honour,” they said, “and I trow, ’Twere unknightly to slay him achieving his vow.” Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the tournament cease, He flung down his warder, the trumpets sung peace; And the judges declare, and competitors yield, That the Knight of the Night-gear was first in the field. The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was nigher, When before the fair princess low louted a squire, And delivered a garment unseemly to view, With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all hack’d and pierc’d through; All rent and all tattered, all clotted with blood, With foam of the horses, with dust, and with mud; Not the point of that lady’s small finger, I ween, Could have rested on spot was unsullied and clean. “This token my master, Sir Thomas a Kent, Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent; He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the fruit, He that leaps the wide gulph should prevail in his suit; Through life’s utmost peril the prize I have won, And now must the faith of my mistress be shown; For she who prompts knights on such danger to run, Must avouch his true service in front of the sun. “‘I restore,’ says my master, ‘the garment I’ve worn, And I claim of the princess to don it in turn; For its stains and its rents she should prize it the more, Since by shame ’tis unsullied, though crimson’d with gore.’” Then deep blush’d the Princess—yet kiss’d she and press’d

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The blood-spotted robe to her lips and her breast. “Go tell my true knight, church and chamber shall show, If I value the blood on this garment or no.” And when it was time for the nobles to pass, In solemn procession to minster and mass, The first walk’d the Princess in purple and pall, But the blood besmear’d night-robe she wore over all; And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at dine, When she knelt to her father and proffer’d the wine, Over all her rich robes and state jewels, she wore That wimple unseemly bedabbled with gore. Then lords whisper’d ladies, as well you may think, And ladies replied, with nod, titter, and wink; And the Prince, who in anger and shame had look’d down, Turn’d at length to his daughter, and spoke with a frown: “Now since thou hast publish’d thy folly and guilt, E’en atone with thy hand for the blood thou hast spilt; Yet sore for your boldness you both will repent, When you wander as exiles from fair Benevent.” Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall where he stood, Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of mood: “The blood that I lost for this daughter of thine, I pour’d forth as freely as flask gives its wine; And if for my sake she brooks penance and blame, Do not doubt I will save her from suffering and shame; And light will she reck of thy princedom and rent, When I hail her, in England, the Countess of Kent.”

A murmur of applause ran through the assembly, following the example of Richard himself, who loaded with praises his favourite minstrel, and ended by presenting him with a ring of considerable value. The Queen hastened to distinguish the favourite by a rich bracelet, and many of the nobles who were present followed the royal example. “Is our cousin Edith,” said the King, “become insensible to the sound of the harp she once loved?” “She thanks Blondel for his lay,” replied Edith, “but doubly the kindness of the kinsman who suggested it.” “Thou art angry, cousin,” said the King; “angry because thou hast heard of a woman more wayward than thyself. But you escape me not—I will walk a space homeward with you towards the Queen’s pavilion—we must have conference together ere the night has waned into morning.” The Queen and her attendants were now on foot, and the other guests withdrew from the royal tent. A train with blazing torches, and an escort of archers, awaited Berengaria without the pavilion, and she was soon on her way homeward. Richard, as he had proposed,

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walked beside his kinswoman, and compelled her to accept of his arm as her support, so that they could speak to each other without being overheard. “What answer then am I to return to the noble Soldan?” said Richard. “The Kings and Princes are falling from me, Edith—this new quarrel hath alienated them once more. I would do something for the Holy Sepulchre by composition, if not by victory; and the chance of my doing this depends, alas, on the caprice of a woman. I would lay my single spear in the rest against ten of the best lances in Christendom, rather than argue with a wilful wench, who knows not what is for her own good.—What answer, coz, am I to return to the Soldan? It must be decisive.” “Tell him,” said Edith, “that the poorest of the Plantagenets will rather wed with misery than with misbelief.” “Shall I say with slavery, Edith?” said the King.—“Methinks that is nearer thy thoughts.” “There is no room,” said Edith, “for the suspicion you so grossly intimate. Slavery of the body might have been pitied, but that of the soul is only to be despised. Shame to thee, King of merry England! thou hast enthralled both the limbs and the spirit of a knight, once scarce less famed than thyself.” “Should I not prevent my kinswoman from drinking poison, by sullying the vessel which contained it, if I saw no other means of disgusting her with the fatal liquor?” replied the King. “It is thyself,” answered Edith, “that would press me to drink poison, because it is proffered in a golden chalice.” “Edith,” said Richard, “I cannot force thy resolution; but beware you shut not the door which Heaven opens. The hermit of Engaddi, he whom Popes and Councils have regarded as a prophet, hath read in the stars that thy marriage shall reconcile me with a powerful enemy, and that thy husband shall be Christian, leaving thus the fairest ground to hope, that the conversion of the Soldan, and the bringing in of the sons of Ishmael to the pale of the Church, will be the consequence of thy wedding with Saladin. Come, thou must make some sacrifice rather than mar such happy prospects.” “Men may sacrifice rams and goats,” said Edith, “but not honour and conscience. I have heard that it was the dishonour of a Christian maiden which brought the Saracens into Spain—the shame of another is no likely mode of expelling them from Palestine.” “Doest thou call it shame to become an Empress?” said the King. “I call it shame and dishonour to profane a Christian sacrament, by entering into it with an infidel whom it cannot bind, and I call it foul dishonour that I, the descendent of a Christian princess, should

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become of free will the head of a haram of heathen concubines.” “Well, kinswoman,” said the King, after a pause, “I must not quarrel with thee, though I think thy dependent condition might have dictated more compliance.” “My liege,” replied Edith, “your Grace hath worthily succeeded to all the wealth, dignity, and dominion of the House of Plantagenet, —do not, therefore, begrudge your poor kinswoman some small share of their pride.” “By my faith, wench,” said the King, “thou hast unhorsed me with that very word; so we will kiss and be friends. I will presently dispatch thy answer to Saladin. But after all, coz, were it not better to suspend your answer till you have seen him? Men say he is preeminently handsome.” “There is no chance of our meeting, my lord,” said Edith. “By Saint George, but there is next to a certainty of it,” said the King; “for Saladin will doubtless afford us a fair field for the doing of this new battle of the Standard, and will witness it himself. Berengaria is wild to behold it also, and I dare be sworn not a feather of you will remain behind—least of all thou thyself, fair coz. But come, we have reached the pavilion, and must part—not in unkindness though—nay, thou must seal it with thy lip as well as thy hand, sweet Edith—it is my right as a sovereign to kiss my pretty vassals.” He embraced her respectfully and affectionately, and returned through the moonlight camp, humming to himself such snatches of Blondel’s lay as he could recollect. On his arrival, he lost no time in making up his dispatches for Saladin, and delivered them to the Nubian, with a charge to set out by peep of day on his return to the Soldan.

Chapter Fourteen We heard the Tecbir,—so these Arabs call Their shout of onset, when, with loud acclaim, They challenge heaven to give them victory. Siege of Damascus

O     subsequent morning, Richard was invited to a conference by Philip of France, in which the latter, with many expressions of his high esteem for his brother of England, communicated to him, in terms extremely courteous, but too explicit to be misunderstood, his positive intention to return to Europe, and to the cares of his kingdom, as entirely despairing of future success in their undertaking, with their diminished forces and civil discords. Richard remonstrated, but in vain; and when the conference ended, he received without

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surprise a manifesto from the Duke of Austria, and several other princes, announcing a resolution similar to that of Philip, and in no modified terms, assigning, for their defection from the cause of the Cross, the inordinate ambition and arbitrary dominion of Richard of England. All hopes of continuing the war with any prospect of ultimate success were now abandoned, and Richard, while he shed bitter tears over his disappointed hopes of glory, was little consoled by the recollection, that the failure was in some degree to be imputed to the advantages which he had given his enemies by his own hasty and imprudent temper. “They had not dared to have deserted my father thus,” he said to De Vaux, in the bitterness of his resentment.—“No slanders they could have uttered against so wise a king would have been believed in Christendom. Whereas, fool that I am, I have not only afforded them a pretext for deserting me, but even a colour for casting all the blame of the rupture upon my unhappy foibles.” These thoughts were so deeply galling to the King that De Vaux was rejoiced when the arrival of an ambassador from Saladin turned his reflections into a different channel. This new envoy was an Emir much respected by the Soldan, whose name was Abdallah el Hadgi. He derived his descent from the family of the Prophet, and the race or tribe of Hashem, in witness of which genealogy he wore a green turban of large dimensions. He had also three times performed the journey to Mecca, from which he derived his epithet of the Hadgi, or Pilgrim. Notwithstanding these various pretensions to sanctity, Abdallah was (for an Arab) a boon companion, who enjoyed a merry tale, and laid aside his gravity so far as to quaff a blithe flagon, when secrecy insured him against scandal. He was likewise a statesman, whose abilities had been used by Saladin in various negotiations with the Christian Princes, and particularly with Richard, to whom El Hadgi was personally known and acceptable. Animated by the cheerful acquiescence with which the envoy of Saladin afforded a fair field for the combat, a safe conduct for all who might choose to witness it, and offered his own person as a guarantee of his fidelity, Richard soon forgot his disappointed hopes, and the approaching dissolution of the Christian league, in the interesting discussions preceding a combat in the lists. The station, called the Diamond of the Desert, was assigned for the place of conflict, as being nearly at an equal distance betwixt the Christian and Saracen camps. It was agreed that Conrade of Montserrat, the defendant, with his godfathers, the Arch-Duke of Austria and the Grand Master of the Templars, should appear there on the

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day fixed for the combat, with an hundred armed followers, and no more; that Richard of England, and his brother Salisbury, who supported the accusation, should attend with the same number, to protect his champion; and that the Soldan should bring with him a guard of five hundred chosen followers, a band considered as not more than equal to the two hundred Christian lances. Such persons of consideration as either party chose to invite to witness the contest, were to wear no other weapons than their swords, and to come without defensive armour. The Soldan undertook the preparation of the lists, and provided for accommodations and refreshments of every kind for all who were to assist at the solemnity; and his letters expressed, with much courtesy, the pleasure which he anticipated in the prospect of a personal and peaceful meeting with the Melec Ric, and his anxious desire to render his reception as agreeable as possible. All preliminaries being arranged and communicated to the defendant and his godfathers, Abdallah the Hadgi was admitted to a more private interview, where he heard with delight the strains of Blondel. Having first carefully put his green turban out of sight, and assumed a Greek cap in its stead, he requited his music with a drinking song from the Persian, and quaffed a hearty flagon of Cyprus wine, to show that his practice matched his principles. On the next day, grave and sober as the water-drinker Mirglip, he bent his brow to the ground before Saladin’s footstool, and rendered to the Soldan an account of his embassy. On the day before that appointed for the combat, Conrade and his friends set off by day-break to repair to the place assigned, and Richard left the camp at the same hour, and for the same purpose; but, as had been agreed upon, he took his journey by a different route, a precaution which had been judged necessary, to prevent the possibility of a quarrel betwixt their armed attendants. The good King himself was in no humour for quarrelling with any one. Nothing could have added to his pleasurable anticipation of a desperate and bloody combat in the lists, except his being in his own royal person one of the combatants; and he was half in charity again even with Conrade of Montserrat. Lightly armed, richly dressed, and gay as a bridegroom on the eve of his nuptials, Richard caracoled along by the side of Queen Berengaria’s litter, pointing out to her the various scenes through which they passed, and cheering with tale and song the bosom of the inhospitable wilderness. The former route of the Queen’s pilgrimage to Engaddi had been on the other side of the chain of mountains, so that the ladies were strangers to the scenery of the desert; and though Berengaria knew her husband’s disposition too well not to endeavour to seem interested in

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what he was pleased either to say or to sing, she could not help indulging some female fears when she found herself in the howling wilderness with so small an escort, which seemed almost like a moving speck on the bosom of the plain, and knew, at the same time, they were not so distant from the camp of Saladin but what they might be in a moment surprised and swept off by an overpowering host of his fiery-footed cavalry, should the Pagan be faithless enough to embrace an opportunity thus tempting. But when she hinted these suspicions to Richard, he repelled them with displeasure and disdain. “It were worse than ingratitude,” he said, “to doubt the good faith of the generous Soldan.” Yet the same doubts and fears recurred more than once, not to the timid mind of the Queen alone, but to the firmer and more candid soul of Edith Plantagenet, who had no such confidence in the faith of the Moslem as to render her perfectly at ease when so much in their power; and her surprise had been far less than her terror, if the desert around had suddenly resounded with the shout of Alla hu! and a band of Arab cavalry had pounced on them like hawks on their prey. Nor were these suspicions lessened, when, as evening approached, they were aware of a single Arab horseman, distinguished by his turban and long lance, hovering on the edge of a small eminence like a hawk poised in the air, and who instantly, on the appearance of the royal retinue, darted off with the speed of the same bird when it shoots down the wind, and disappeared from the horizon. “We must be near the station,” said King Richard; “and yonder cavalier is one of Saladin’s outposts—methinks I hear the noise of the Moorish horns and cymbals—Get you into order, my hearts, and form yourselves around the ladies soldier-like and firmly.” As he spoke, each knight, squire, and archer, hastily closed in upon his appointed ground, and they proceeded in the most compact order, which made their numbers appear still smaller; and to say the truth, though there might be no fear, there was anxiety as well as curiosity in the attention with which they listened to the wild bursts of Moorish music, which came ever and anon more distinctly from the quarter in which the Arab horseman had been seen to disappear. De Vaux spoke in a whisper to the King—“Were it not well, my liege, to send a page to the top of that sand-bank? Or would it stand with your pleasure that I prick forward? Methinks, by all yonder clash and clang, if there be no more than five hundred men beyond the sand-hills, half of the Soldan’s retinue must be drummers and cymbal-tossers.—Shall I spur on?” The baron had checked his horse with the bit, and was just about

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to strike him with the spurs, when the King exclaimed—“Not for the world. Such a caution would express suspicion, and could do little to prevent surprise, which, however, I apprehend not.” They advanced accordingly in close and firm order till they surmounted the line of low sand-hills, and came in sight of the appointed station, where a splendid, but at the same time a startling spectacle, awaited them. The Diamond of the Desert, so lately a solitary fountain, distinguished only amid the waste by its solitary groups of palm-trees, was now the centre of an encampment, the embroidered flags and gilded ornaments of which glittered far and wide, and reflected a thousand rich tints against the setting sun. The coverings of the large pavilions were of the gayest colours, scarlet, bright yellow, pale blue, and other gaudy and gleaming hues, and the tops of their pillars, or tentpoles, were decorated with golden pomegranates, and small silken flags. But, besides these distinguished pavilions, there were what Thomas de Vaux considered as a portentous number of the ordinary black tents of the Arabs, being sufficient, as he conceived, to accommodate, according to the Eastern fashion, an host of five thousand men. A number of Arabs and Kurds, fully corresponding to the extent of the encampment, were hastily assembling, each leading his horse in his hand, and their muster was accompanied by an astonishing clamour of those noisy instruments of martial music, by which, in all ages, the warfare of the Arabs has been animated. They soon formed a deep and confused mass of dismounted cavalry in front of their encampment, when, at the signal of a shrill cry, which arose high over the clangour of the music, each cavalier sprung to his saddle. A cloud of dust arising at the moment of this manœuvre hid from Richard and his attendants the camp, the palmtrees, and the distant ridge of mountains, as well as the troops whose sudden movement had raised the cloud, and, ascending high over their heads, formed itself into the fantastic forms of writhed pillars, domes, and minarets. Another shrill yell was heard from the bosom of this cloudy tabernacle. It was the signal for the cavalry to advance, which they did at full gallop, disposing themselves as they came forwards, so as to come in at once on the front, flank, and rear, of Richard’s little body-guard, who were thus surrounded, and almost choked by the dense clouds of dust enveloping them on each side, through which were alternately seen and lost the grim forms and wild faces of the Saracens, brandishing and tossing their lances in every possible direction, with the wildest cries and halloos, and frequently only reining up their horses when within a spear’s length of the Christians, while those in the rear discharged over the heads

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of both parties thick vollies of arrows. One of these struck the litter in which the Queen was seated, who instantly screamed, and the red spot was on Richard’s brow in an instant. “Ha! Saint George,” he exclaimed, “we must take some order with this infidel scum!” But Edith, whose litter was near, thrust her head out, and with her hand holding one of the shafts, exclaimed, “Royal Richard, beware what you do! see, these arrows are headless!” “Noble, sensible wench!” exclaimed Richard; “by Heaven, thou shamest us all by thy readiness of thought and eye.—Be not moved, my English hearts,” he exclaimed to his followers—“their arrows have no heads—and their spears, too, lack the steel points. It is but a wild welcome, after their savage fashion, though doubtless they would rejoice to see us daunted or disturbed. Move onward, slow and steady.” The little phalanx moved forward accordingly, accompanied on all sides by the Arabs, with the shrillest and most piercing cries, the bowmen, meanwhile, displaying their agility by shooting as near the crests of the Christians as was possible, without actually hitting them, while the lancers charged each other with such rough blows of their blunt weapons, that more than one of them lost his saddle, and well nigh his life, in this rough sport. All this, though designed to express welcome, had rather a doubtful appearance in the eyes of the Europeans. As they had advanced nearly halfway towards the camp, King Richard and his suite forming, as it were, the nucleus round which this tumultuary body of horsemen howled, whooped, skirmished, and galloped, creating a scene of indescribable confusion, another shrill cry was heard, on which all these irregulars, who were on the front and upon the flanks of the little body of Europeans, wheeled off, and forming themselves into a long and deep column, followed with comparative order and silence in the rear of Richard’s little troop. The dust began now to dissipate in their front, when there advanced to meet them, through that cloudy veil, a body of cavalry of a different and more regular description, completely armed with offensive and defensive weapons, and who might well have served as a body-guard to the proudest of eastern monarchs. Each horse in that troop, which consisted of five hundred men, was worth an earl’s ransom. The riders were Georgian and Circassian slaves in the very prime of life; their helmets and hauberks were formed of steel rings, so bright that they shone like silver; their vestures were of the gayest colours, and some of cloth of gold or silver; their sashes were twisted with silk and gold, their rich turbans were plumed and

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jewelled, and their sabres and poniards of Damascene steel, were adorned with gold and gems on hilt and scabbard. This splendid troop advanced to the sound of military music, and when they met the Christian body, they opened their files to the right and left, and let them enter between their ranks. Richard now assumed the foremost place in his troop, aware that Saladin himself was approaching. Nor was it long when, in the centre of his bodyguard, surrounded by his domestic officers, and those hideous negroes who guard the Eastern haram, and whose mishapen forms were rendered yet more frightful by the richness of their attire, came the Soldan, with the look and manners of one on whose brow Nature had written, This is a king! In his snow-white turban, vest, and pantaloons, with a sash of scarlet silk, without any other ornament, Saladin might have seemed the most plain-dressed man in his own guard. But closer inspection discerned in his turban that inestimable gem, which was called by the poets “the sea of light”; the diamond on which his signet was engraved, and which he wore in a ring, was probably worth all the jewels of the English crown, and a sapphire, which terminated the hilt of his canjiar, was of not much inferior value. It should be added, that to protect him from the dust, which, in the vicinity of the Dead Sea, resembles the finest ashes, or, perhaps, out of Oriental pride, the Soldan wore a sort of veil attached to his turban, which partly obscured the view of his noble features. He reined a milk-white Arabian, which bore him as if conscious and proud of his noble burthen. There was no need of farther introduction. The two heroic monarchs, for such they both were, threw themselves at once from horseback, and the troops halting and the music suddenly ceasing, they advanced to meet each other in profound silence, and, after a courteous inclination on either side, they embraced as brethren and equals. The pomp and display upon both sides attracted no farther notice—no one saw aught save Richard and Saladin, and they too beheld nothing but each other. The looks with which Richard surveyed Saladin were, however, more intently curious than those which the Soldan fixed upon him; and the Soldan also was the first to break silence. “The Melec Ric is welcome to Saladin as water to this desert. I trust he hath no distrust of this numerous array. Excepting the armed slaves of my household, those who surround you with eyes of wonder and of welcome, are, even the humblest of them, the privileged nobles of my thousand tribes; for who that could claim a title to be present, would remain at home when such a Prince was to be seen as Richard, with the terrors of whose name, even on the sands

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of Yemen, the nurse stills her child, and the free Arab subdues his restive steed.” “And these are all nobles of Araby?” said Richard, looking around on wild forms with their persons covered with haicks, their countenance swart with the sunbeams, their teeth as white as ivory, their black eyes glancing with fierce and preternatural lustre from under the shade of their turbans, and their dress being in general simple, even to meanness. “They claim such rank,” said Saladin; “but though numerous, they are within the conditions of the treaty, and bear no arms but the sabre—even the iron of their lances is left behind.” “I fear,” muttered De Vaux in English, “they have left them where they can be soon found.—A most flourishing House of Peers, I confess, and would find Westminster-Hall something too narrow for them.” “Hush, De Vaux,” said Richard, “I command thee.—Noble Saladin,” he said, “suspicion and thou cannot exist on the same ground. —Seest thou,” pointing to the litters—“I too have brought some champions with me, though armed, perhaps, in breach of agreement, for bright eyes and fair features are weapons which cannot be left behind.” The Soldan, turning to the litters, made an obeisance as lowly as if looking towards Mecca, and kissed the sand in token of respect. “Nay,” said Richard,—“they will not fear a closer encounter, brother; wilt thou not ride towards their litters, and the curtains will be presently withdrawn?” “That may Allah prohibit!” said Saladin; “since not an Arab looks on who would not think it shame to the noble ladies to be seen with their faces uncovered.” “Thou shalt see them then in private, brother,” answered Richard. “To what purpose?” answered Saladin, mournfully. “Thy last letter was, to the hopes which I had entertained, like water to fire; and wherefore should I again light a flame, which may indeed consume, but cannot cheer me?—But will not my brother pass to the tent which his servant hath prepared for him? My principal black slave hath taken order for the reception of the Princesses—the officers of my household will attend your followers, and ourself will be the chamberlain of the royal Richard.” He led the way accordingly to a splendid pavilion, where was everything that royal luxury could devise. De Vaux, who was in attendance, then removed the chappe, (capa,) or long riding-cloak which Richard wore, and he stood before Saladin in the close dress which showed to advantage the strength and symmetry of his person,

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while it bore a strong contrast to the flowing robes which disguised the thin frame of the eastern monarch. It was Richard’s two-handed sword that chiefly attracted the attention of the Saracen, a broad straight blade, the seemingly unwieldy length of which extended well nigh from the shoulder to the heel of the wearer. “Had I not,” said Saladin, “seen this brand flaming in the front of battle, like that of Azrael, I had scarce believed that human arm could wield it. Might I request to see the Melec Ric strike one blow with it in peace, and in pure trial of strength?” “Willingly, noble Saladin,” answered Richard; and looking around for something whereon to exercise his strength, he saw a steel mace, held by one of the attendants, the handle being of the same metal and about an inch and a half in diameter—this he placed on a block of wood. The anxiety of De Vaux for his master’s honour led him to whisper in English—“For the blessed Virgin’s sake, beware what you attempt, my liege! Your full strength is not as yet returned—give no triumph to the infidel.” “Peace, fool!” said Richard, standing firm on his ground, and casting a fierce glance around—“thinkest thou that I can fail in his presence?” The glittering broadsword, wielded by both his hands, rose aloft to the King’s left shoulder, circled round his head, descended with the sway of some terrific engine, and the bar of iron rolled on the ground in two pieces, as a woodsman would sever a sapling with a hedging-bill. “By the head of the Prophet, a most wonderful blow!” said the Soldan, critically and accurately examining the iron bar which had been cut asunder; and the blade of the sword was so well tempered as to exhibit not the least token of having suffered by the feat it had performed. He then took the King’s hand, and looking on the size and muscular strength which it exhibited, laughed as he placed beside it his own, so lank and thin, so inferior in brawn and sinew. “Ay, look well,” said De Vaux, in English, “it will be long ere your long jack-an-ape’s fingers do such a feat with your fine gilded reaping-hook there.” “Silence, De Vaux,” said Richard; “by Our Lady, he understands or guesses thy meaning—be not so broad, I pray thee.” The Soldan, indeed, presently said—“Something I would fain attempt—yet, wherefore should the weak show their infirmity in presence of the strong? Yet, each land hath its own exercises, and this may be new to the Melec Ric.”—So saying, he took from the floor a cushion of silk and down, and placed it upright on one end.

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—“Can thy weapon sever that cushion?” he said to King Richard. “No, surely,” replied the King, “no sword on earth, were it the Excalibar of King Arthur, can cut that which opposes no steady resistance.” “Mark, then,” said Saladin; and tucking upon the sleeve of his gown, showed his arm, long indeed and spare, but which constant exercise and diet had hardened into a mass consisting of nought but bone, brawn, and sinew. He unsheathed his scymitar, a curved and narrow blade, which glittered not like the swords of the Franks, but was, on the contrary, of a dull blue colour, marked with ten millions of meandering lines, which showed how the metal had been welded by the armourers. Wielding this weapon, apparently so inefficient when compared to that of Richard, the Soldan stood resting his weight upon his left foot, which was slightly advanced; he balanced himself a little as if to study his aim, then stepping at once forward, drew the scymitar across the cushion, applying the edge so dexterously, and with so little apparent effort, that the cushion seemed rather to fall asunder than to be divided by violence. “It is a juggler’s trick,” said De Vaux, darting forward and snatching up the portion of the cushion which had been cut off, as if to assure himself of the reality of the feat,—“there is gramarye in this.” The Soldan seemed to comprehend him, for he undid the sort of veil which he had hitherto worn, laid it double along the edge of his sabre, extended the weapon edgeways in the air, and drawing it suddenly through the veil, although it hung on the blade entirely loose, severed that also into two parts, which floated to different sides of the tent, equally displaying the extreme temper and sharpness of the weapon, and the exquisite dexterity of him who used it. “Now, in good faith, my brother,” said Richard, “thou art even matchless at the trick of the sword, and right perilous were it to meet thee! Still, however, I put some faith in a downright English blow, and what we cannot do by sleight, we eke out by strength. Nevertheless, in truth thou art as expert in inflicting wounds, as my sage Hakim in curing them. I trust I shall see the learned leech—I have much to thank him for, and had brought some small present.” As he spoke, Saladin exchanged his turban for a Tartar cap. He had no sooner done so, than De Vaux opened at once his extended mouth and his large round eyes, and Richard gazed with scarce less astonishment, while the Soldan spoke in a grave and altered voice: “The sick man, sayeth the poet, knoweth the physician by his step; but when he is recovered, he knoweth not even his face when he looks upon him.” “A miracle!—a miracle!” exclaimed Richard.

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“Of Mahound’s working, doubtless,” said Thomas de Vaux. “That I should lose my learned Hakim,” said Richard, “merely by absence of his cap and robe, and that I should find him again in my royal brother Saladin!” “Such is oft the fashion of the world,” said Saladin; “the tattered robe makes not always the dervise.” “And it was through thy intercession,” said Richard, “that yonder Knight of the Leopard was saved from death—and by thy artifice that he revisited my camp in disguise?” “Even so,” replied the Soldan; “I was physician enough to know, that unless the wounds of his bleeding honour were staunched, the days of his life must be few. His disguise was more easily penetrated than I had expected from the success of my own.” “An accident,” said King Richard, probably alluding to the circumstance of his applying his lips to the wound of the supposed Nubian, “let me first know that his skin was artificially discoloured; and that hint once taken, detection became easy, for his form and person are not to be forgotten. I confidently expect that he will do battle on the morrow.” “He is full in preparation, and high in hope,” said the Soldan. “I have furnished him with weapons and horse, thinking nobly of him from what I had seen under various disguises.” “Knows he now,” said Richard, “to whom he lies under obligation?” “He doth,” replied the Saracen—“I was obliged to confess my person when I unfolded my purpose.” “And confessed he aught to you?” said the King of England. “Nothing explicit,” replied the Soldan; “but from much that passed between us, I conceive his love is too highly placed to be happy in its issue.” “And thou knewest, that his daring and insolent passion crossed thine own wishes?” said Richard. “I might guess so much,” said Saladin; “but his passion had existed ere my wishes had been formed—and, I must now add, is like to survive them.—I cannot, in honour, revenge me for my disappointment on him who had no hand in it. Or, if this high-born dame loved him better than I, who can say that she did not justice to a knight who is full of nobleness?” “Yet of too mean lineage to mix with the blood of Plantagenet,” said Richard, haughtily. “Such may be your maxims in Frangistan,” replied the Soldan. “Our poets of the eastern countries say, that a valiant camel-driver is worthy to kiss the lip of a fair Queen, when a cowardly prince is not

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worthy to salute the hem of her garment. But with your permission, noble brother, I must take leave of thee for the present, to receive the Duke of Austria and yonder Nazarene knight, much less worthy of hospitality, but who must yet be suitably entreated, not for their sakes, but for mine own honour—for what saith the sage Lokman? ‘Say not that the food is lost unto thee which is given to the stranger —for if his body be strengthened and fattened therewithal, not less is thine own worship and good name cherished and augmented.’” The Saracen monarch departed from King Richard’s tent, and having indicated to him, rather with signs than with speech, where the pavilion of the Queen and her attendants was pitched, he went to receive the Marquis of Montserrat and his adherents, for whom, with less good will, but with equal splendour, the magnificent Soldan had provided accommodations. The most ample refreshments, both in the Oriental, and after the European fashion, were spread before the royal and princely guests of Saladin, each in their own separate pavilion; and so attentive was the Soldan to the habits and taste of his visitors, that Grecian slaves were stationed to present them with the goblet which is the abomination of the sect of Mahommed. Ere Richard had finished his meal, the ancient Omrah, who had brought the Soldan’s letter to the Christian camp, entered with a plan of the ceremonial to be observed on the succeeding day of combat. Richard, who knew the taste of his old acquaintance, invited him to pledge him in a flagon of wine of Schiraz; but Abdallah gave him to understand, with a rueful aspect, that self-denial, in the present circumstances, was a matter in which his life was concerned; for that Saladin, tolerant in many respects, both observed, and enforced by high penalties, the laws of the Prophet. “Nay, then,” said Richard, “if he loves not wine, that lightener of the human heart, his conversion is not to be hoped for, and the prediction of the bad priest of Engaddi goes like chaff down the wind.” The King then addressed him to settle the articles of combat, which cost a considerable time, as it was necessary on some points to consult with the opposite parties, as well as with the Soldan. They were at length finally agreed upon, and adjusted by a protocol in French and in Arabian, which was subscribed by Saladin as umpire of the field, and by Richard and Leopold as guarantees for the two combatants. As the Omrah took his final leave of King Richard for the evening, De Vaux entered. “The good knight,” he said, “who is to do battle to-morrow, requests to know, whether he may not to-night pay duty to his royal godfather.”

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“Hast thou seen him, De Vaux?” said the King, smiling; “and didst thou know an ancient acquaintance?” “By Our Lady of Lanercost,” answered De Vaux, “there are so many surprises and changes in this land, that my poor brain turns. I scarce knew Sir Kenneth of Scotland, till his good hound, that had been for a short while under my care, came and fawned on me; and even then I only knew the tyke by the depth of his chest, the roundness of his foot, and his manner of baying; for the poor fellow was painted like any Venetian courtezan.” “Thou art better skilled in brutes than men, De Vaux,” said the King. “I will not deny,” said De Vaux, “I have found them ofttimes the honester animals. Also, your Grace is pleased to term me sometimes a brute myself; besides that I serve the Lion, whom all men acknowledge the king of brutes.” “Marry, there thou brokest thy lance fairly on my brow,” said the King. “I have ever said thou hast a sort of wit, De Vaux—marry, one must strike thee with a sledge-hammer ere it can be made to sparkle. But to the present gear—is the good knight well armed and equipped?” “Fully, my liege, and nobly,” answered De Vaux; “I know the armour well—it is that which the Venetian commissary offered your highness, just ere you became ill, for five hundred bezants.” “And he hath sold it to the infidel Soldan, I warrant me, for a few ducats more, and present payment? These Venetians would sell the Sepulchre itself!” “It will now be borne in a noble cause,” said De Vaux. “Thanks to the nobleness of the Saracen,” said the King, “not to the avarice of the Venetians.” “I would to God your Grace would be more cautious,” said the anxious De Vaux.—“Here are we deserted by all our allies, for points of offence given to one or another; we cannot hope to prosper upon the land, and we have only to quarrel with this amphibious republic and we will lose the means of retreat by sea!” “I will take care,” said Richard, impatiently; “but school me no more. Tell me rather, for it is of interest, hath the knight a confessor?” “He hath,” answered De Vaux; “the hermit of Engaddi, who erst did him that office when preparing for death, attends him on the present occasion; the fame of the duel having brought him hither.” “’Tis well,” said Richard; “and now for the knight’s request. Say to him, Richard will receive him when the discharge of his devoir beside the Diamond of the Desert shall have atoned for his fault beside the Mount of Saint George; and as thou passest through the

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camp, let the Queen know I will visit her pavilion—and tell Blondel to meet me there.” De Vaux departed, and in about an hour afterwards, Richard, wrapping his mantle around him, and taking his gittern in his hand, walked in the direction of the Queen’s pavilion. Several Arabs passed him, but always with averted heads, and looks fixed upon the earth, though he could observe that all gazed earnestly after him when he was past. This led him justly to conjecture that his person was known to them; but that either the Soldan’s commands, or their own oriental politeness, forbade them to seem to notice a sovereign who desired to remain incognito. When the King reached the pavilion of his Queen, he found it guarded by those unhappy officials whom eastern jealousy places around the Zenana. Blondel was walking before the door, and touched his rote from time to time, in a manner which made the Africans show their ivory teeth, and bear burthen with their strange gestures and unnaturally shrill voices. “What art thou after with this herd of black cattle, Blondel?” said the King; “wherefore goest thou not into the tent?” “Because my trade can neither spare the head nor the fingers,” said Blondel; “and these honest blackamoors threatened to cut me joint from joint if I pressed forwards.” “Well, enter with me,” said the King, “and I will be thy safeguard.” The blacks accordingly lowered pikes and swords to King Richard, and bent their eyes on the ground, as if unworthy to look upon him. In the interior of the pavilion, they found Thomas de Vaux in attendance on the Queen. While Berengaria welcomed Blondel, King Richard spoke secretly and apart with his fair kinswoman. “Are we still foes, my fair Edith?” he said in a whisper. “No, my liege,” said Edith, in a voice just so low as not to interrupt the music—“none can bear enmity against King Richard, when he deigns to show himself, as he really is, generous and noble, as well as valiant and honourable.” So saying, she extended her hand to him. The King kissed it in token of reconciliation, and then proceeded. “You think, my sweet cousin, that my anger in this matter was feigned; but you are deceived. The punishment I inflicted upon this knight was just; for he had betrayed—no matter for how tempting a bribe, fair cousin—the trust committed to him. But I rejoice, perchance as much as you, that to-morrow gives him chance to win the field, and throw back the shame which for a time clung to him, upon the actual thief and traitor. No!—future times may blame Richard for impetuous folly; but they shall say, that in rendering judgment,

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he was just when he should, and merciful when he could.” “Laud not thyself, cousin King,” said Edith. “They may call thy justice cruelty—thy mercy caprice.” “And do not thou pride thyself,” said the King, “as if thy knight, who hath not yet buckled on his armour, were unbelting it in triumph —Conrade of Montserrat is held a good lance. What if the Scot should lose the day?” “It is impossible!” said Edith, firmly—“My own eyes saw yonder Conrade tremble and change colour, like a base thief. He is guilty— and the trial by combat is an appeal to the justice of God.—I myself, in such a cause, would encounter him with a fan.” “By the mass, I think thou wouldst, wench,” said the King, “and beat him to boot; for there never breathed a truer Plantagenet than thou.” He paused, and added in a very serious tone,—“See that thou continue to remember what is due to thy birth.” “What means that advice, so seriously given at this moment?” said Edith. “Am I of such light nature as to forget my name—my condition?” “I will speak plainly, Edith,” answered the King, “and as to a friend,—What will this knight be to you, should he come off victor from yonder lists?” “To me?” said Edith, blushing deep with shame and displeasure, —“What can he be to me more than an honoured knight, worthy of such grace as Queen Berengaria might confer on him, had he selected her for his lady, instead of a more unworthy choice? The meanest knight may devote himself to the service of an empress, but the glory of his choice must be his reward.” “Yet he hath served and suffered much for you,” said the King. “I have paid his services with honour and applause, and his sufferings with tears,” answered Edith. “Had he desired other reward, he would have loved within his own degree.” “You would not then wear the bloody night-gear for his sake?” said King Richard. “No more,” answered Edith, “than I would have required him to expose his life by an action, in which there was more madness than honour.” “Maidens talk ever thus,” said the King; “but when the favoured lover presses his suit, she says, with a sigh, her stars had decreed otherwise.” “Your Grace has now, for the second time, threatened me with the influence of my horoscope,” Edith replied, with dignity. “Trust me, my liege, whatever be the power of the stars, your poor kinswo-

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man will never wed either infidel, or obscure adventurer.—Permit me, that I listen to the music of Blondel, for the tone of your royal admonitions is scarce so grateful to the ear.” The conclusion of the evening offered nothing worthy of notice.

Chapter Fifteen Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? G

I         agreed, on account of the heat of the climate, that the judicial combat, which was the cause of the present assemblage of various nations at the Diamond of the Desert, should take place one hour after sunrise. The wide lists, which had been constructed under the inspection of the Knight of the Leopard, inclosed a space of hard sand, which was one hundred and twenty yards long by forty in width. They extended in length from north to south, so as to give both parties the equal advantage of the rising sun. Saladin’s royal seat was erected on the western side of the inclosure, just in the centre, where the combatants were expected to meet in mid encounter. Opposed to this was a gallery with closed casements, so contrived, that the ladies, whose station it was designed to be, might see the fight without being themselves exposed to view. At either extremity of the lists was a barrier, which could be opened or shut at pleasure. Thrones had been also erected, but the Arch-Duke, perceiving that his was lower than King Richard’s, refused to occupy it; and Coeur de Lion, who would have submitted to much ere any formality should have interfered with the combat, readily agreed that the sponsors, as they were called, should remain on horseback during the fight. At one extremity of the lists were placed the followers of Richard, and opposed to them were those who accompanied the defender, Conrade. Around the throne destined for the Soldan, were ranged his splendid Georgian Guards, and the rest of the inclosure was occupied by Christian and Mahommedan spectators. Long before day-break, the lists were surrounded by even a larger number of Saracens than Richard had seen on the preceding evening. When the first ray of the sun’s glorious orb arose above the desert, the sonorous call, “To prayer—to prayer!” was poured forth by the Soldan himself, and answered by others, whose rank and zeal entitled them to act as muezzins. It was a striking spectacle to see them all sink to earth, for the purpose of repeating their devotions, with their faces turned to Mecca. But when they arose from the ground, the

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sun’s rays, now strengthening fast, seemed to confirm the Lord of Gilsland’s conjecture of the night before. They were flashed back from many a spear-head, for the pointless lances of the preceding day seemed now no longer such. De Vaux pointed it out to his master, who answered with impatience that he had perfect confidence in the good faith of the Soldan; but if De Vaux was afraid of his bulky body, he might retire. Soon after this the noise of the timbrels was heard, at the sound of which the whole Saracen cavaliers threw themselves from their horses, and prostrated themselves, as if for a second morning prayer. This was to give an opportunity to the Queen, with Edith and her attendants, to pass from their pavilion to the gallery intended for them. Fifty guards of Saladin’s seraglio escorted them, with naked sabres, whose orders were, to cut to pieces whomsoever, were he prince or peasant, should venture to gaze on the ladies as they passed, or even presume to raise his head until the cessation of the music should make all men aware that they were lodged in their gallery, not to be gazed on by the willing eye. This superstitious observance of Oriental reverence to the fair sex called forth from the Queen Berengaria some criticisms very unfavourable to Saladin and his country. But their den, as the Queen called it, being securely closed and guarded by their sable attendants, she was under the necessity of contenting herself with seeing, and laying aside for the present the still more excellent pleasure of being seen. Meantime the sponsors of both champions went, as was their duty, to see that they were duly armed, and prepared for combat. The Duke of Austria was in no hurry to perform this part of the ceremony, having had an unusually severe debauch upon wine of Schiraz the preceding evening. But the Grand Master of the Temple, more deeply concerned in the event of the combat, was early before the tent of Conrade of Montserrat. To his great surprise, the attendants refused him admittance. “Do you not know me, ye knaves?” said the Grand Master, in great anger. “We do, most valiant and reverend,” answered Conrade’s squire; “but even you may not at present enter—the Marquis is about to confess himself.” “Confess himself!” exclaimed the Grand Master, in a tone where alarm mingled with surprise and scorn,—“and to whom, I pray thee?” “My master bid me be secret,” said the squire; on which the Grand Master pushed past him, and entered the tent.

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The Marquis of Montserrat was kneeling at the feet of the hermit of Engaddi, and in the act of beginning his confession. “What means this, Lord Marquis?” said the Grand Master; “up, for shame—or, if you must needs confess, am not I here?” “I have confessed to you too oft already,” replied Conrade, with a pale cheek and a faltering voice. “For God’s sake, Grand Master, begone, and let me unfold my conscience to this holy man.” “In what is he holier than I am?” said the Grand Master.— “Hermit, prophet, madman—say, if thou darest, in what thou excellest me?” “Bold and bad man,” replied the hermit, “know that I am like the latticed window, and the divine light passes through to avail others, though, alas! it helpeth not me. Thou art like the iron stanchions, which neither receive light themselves, nor communicate it to any one.” “Prate not to me, but depart from this tent,” said the Grand Master; “the Marquis shall not confess this morning, unless it be to me, for I part not from his side.” “Is this your pleasure,” said the hermit to Conrade; “for think not I will obey that proud man, if you continue to desire my assistance.” “Alas,” said Conrade, irresolutely, “what would you have me say? —Farewell for a while—we will speak anon.” “Oh, procrastination!” exclaimed the hermit, “thou art a soulmurderer! Unhappy man, farewell—not for a while, but until we shall both meet—no matter where. And for thee,” he added, turning to the Grand Master, “T !” “Tremble!” replied the Templar, contemptuously, “I cannot if I would.” The hermit heard not his answer, having left the tent. “Come, to this gear hastily,” said the Grand Master, “since thou wilt needs go through the foolery.—Hark thee—I think I know most of thy frailties by heart, so we may omit the detail, which may be somewhat a long one, and begin with the absolution. What signifies counting the spots of dirt that we are about to wash from our hands?” “Knowing what thou art thyself,” said Conrade, “it is blasphemous to speak of pardoning another.” “That is not according to the canon, Conrade,” said the Templar, —“thou art more scrupulous than orthodox. The absolution of the wicked priest is as effectual as if he were a saint—otherwise, God help the poor penitent! What wounded man inquires whether the surgeon that tents his gashes have clean hands or no?—Come, shall we to this toy?”

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“No,” said Conrade, “I will rather die unconfessed than mock the sacrament.” “Come, noble Marquis,” said the Templar, “rouse up your courage, and speak not thus. In an hour’s time thou shalt stand victorious in the lists, or confess thee in thy helmet, like a valiant knight.” “Alas, Grand Master,” answered Conrade, “all augurs ill for this affair—the strange discovery by the instinct of a dog—the revival of this Scottish knight, who comes into the lists like a spectre—all betokens evil.” “Pshaw,” said the Templar, “I have seen thee bend thy lance boldly against him in sport, and with equal chance of success—think thou art but in a tournament, and who bears him better in the tiltyard than thou?—Come, squires and armourers, your master must be accoutred for the field.” The attendants entered accordingly, and began to arm the Marquis. “What morning is without?” said Conrade. “The sun rises dimly,” answered a squire. “Thou seest, Grand Master,” said Conrade, “nought smiles on us.” “Thou wilt fight the more coolly, my son,” answered the Templar; “thank Heaven, that hath tempered the sun of Palestine to suit thine occasion.” Thus jested the Grand Master, but his jests had lost their influence on the mind of the Marquis, and, notwithstanding his attempts to seem gay, the gloom communicated itself to the Grand Master. “This craven,” he thought, “will lose the day in pure faintness and cowardice of heart, which he calls tender conscience. I, whom visions and auguries shake not—who am firm in my purpose as the living rock—I should have fought the combat myself.—Would to God the Scot may strike him dead on the spot—it were next best to his winning the victory. But come what will, he must have no other confessor than myself—our sins are too much in common, and he might confess my share with his own.” While these thoughts passed through his mind, he continued to assist the Marquis in arming, but it was in complete silence. The hour at length arrived, the trumpets sounded, the knights rode into the lists armed at all points, and mounted like men who were to do battle for a kingdom’s honour. They wore their vizors up, and, riding around the lists three times, showed themselves to the spectators. Both were goodly persons, and both had noble countenances. But there was an air of manly confidence on the brow of the Scot—a radiancy of hope, which amounted even to cheerfulness,

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while, although pride and effort had recalled much of Conrade’s natural courage, there lowered still on his brow a cloud of ominous despondence. Even his steed seemed to tread less lightly and blithely to the trumpet-sound than the noble Arab which was bestrode by Sir Kenneth; and the spruch-sprecher shook his head while he observed, that while the challenger rode around the lists in the course of the sun, that is from right to left, the defender made the same circuit widdersins, that is from left to right, which is in most countries held ominous. A temporary altar was erected just beneath the gallery occupied by the Queen, and beside it stood the hermit in the dress of his order, as a Carmelite friar. Other churchmen were also present. To this altar the challenger and defender were successively brought forwards, conducted by their respective sponsors. Dismounting before it, each knight avouched the justice of his cause by a solemn oath on the Evangelists, and prayed that his success might be according to the truth or falsehood of what he then swore. They also made oath, that they came to do battle in knightly guise, and with the usual weapons, disclaiming the use of spells, charms, or magical devices, to incline victory to their side. The challenger made his oath with a firm and manly voice, and a bold and cheerful countenance. When the ceremony was finished, he looked at the gallery, and bent his head to the earth, as if in honour of those invisible beauties which were inclosed within; then, loaded with armour as he was, sprung to the saddle without the use of the stirrup, and made his courser carry him in a succession of caracoles to his station at the eastern extremity of the lists. Conrade also presented himself before the altar with boldness enough; but his voice, as he took the oath, sounded hollow, as if drowned in his helmet. The lips, with which he appealed to Heaven to adjudge victory to the just quarrel, grew white, as they uttered the impious mockery. As he turned to remount his horse, the Grand Master approached him closer, as if to rectify something about the sitting of his gorget, and whispered,—“Coward and fool! —recall thy senses, and do me this battle bravely, else, by Heaven, shouldst thou escape him, thou escapest not me!” The savage tone in which this was whispered, perhaps completed the confusion of the Marquis’s nerves, for he stumbled as he made to horse; and though he recovered his feet, sprung to the saddle with his usual agility, and displayed his address in horsemanship as he assumed his position opposite to the challenger’s, yet the accident did not escape those who were on the watch for omens, which might predict the fate of the day. The priests, after a solemn prayer, that God would show the

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rightful quarrel, departed from the lists. The trumpets of the challenger then rung a flourish, and a herald-at-arms proclaimed from the eastern end of the lists,—“Here stands a good knight, Sir Kenneth of Scotland, champion for the royal King Richard of England, who accuseth Conrade, Marquis of Montserrat, of foul treason and dishonour done to the said King.” When the words Kenneth of Scotland announced the name and character of the champion, hitherto scarce generally known, a loud and cheerful acclaim burst from the followers of King Richard, and hardly, notwithstanding repeated commands of silence, suffered the reply of the defendant to be heard. He, of course, avouched his innocence, and offered his body for battle. The esquires of the combatants now approached, and delivered to each knight his shield and lance, assisting to hang the former around his neck, that his two hands might remain free,—one for the management of the bridle, the other to direct the lance. The shield of the Scot displayed his old bearing, the leopard, but with the addition of a collar and broken chain, in allusion to his late captivity. The shield of the Marquis bore, in reference to his title, a serrated and rocky mountain. Each shook his lance aloft, as if to ascertain the weight and toughness of the unwieldy weapon, and then laid it in the rest. The sponsors, heralds, and squires, now retired to the barriers, and the combatants sat opposite to each other, face to face, with couched lance and closed vizor, the human form so completely inclosed, that they looked more like statues of molten iron, than beings of flesh and blood. The silence of suspense was now general—men breathed thicker, and their very souls seemed seated in their eyes, while not a sound was to be heard save the snorting and pawing of the good steeds, who, sensible of what was about to happen, were impatient to dash into career. They stood thus for perhaps three minutes, when, at a signal given by the Soldan, an hundred instruments rent the air with their brazen clamours, and each champion striking his horse with the spurs, and slacking the rein, the horses started into full gallop, and the knights met in mid space with a shock like a thunderbolt. The victory was not in doubt—no, not one moment. Conrade, indeed, showed himself a practised warrior, for he struck his antagonist knightly in the midst of his shield, bearing his lance so straight and true, that it shivered into splinters up to the very gauntlet. The horse of Kenneth recoiled two or three yards and fell on his haunches, but the rider easily raised him with hand and rein. But for Conrade, there was no recovery. Sir Kenneth’s lance had pierced through the shield, through a plated corslet of Milan steel, through a secret, or coat of

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linked mail, worn beneath the corslet, had wounded him deep in the bosom, and borne him from his saddle, leaving the truncheon of the lance fixed in his wound. The sponsors, heralds, and Saladin himself, descending from his throne, crowded around the wounded man; while Kenneth, who had drawn his sword ere yet he discovered his antagonist was totally helpless, now commanded him to avow his guilt. The helmet was hastily unlaced, and the wounded man, gazing wildly on the skies, replied,—“What would you more?—God hath decided justly—I am guilty—but there are worse traitors in the camp than I.—In pity to my soul, let me have a confessor!” He swooned as he uttered these words. “The talisman—the powerful remedy, royal brother,” said King Richard to Saladin. “The traitor,” answered the Soldan, “is more fit to be dragged from the lists to the gallows by the heels, than to profit by its virtues; —and some such fate is in his look,” he added, after looking fixedly upon the wounded man; “for, though his wound may be cured, yet Azrael’s seal is on the wretch’s brow.” “Nevertheless,” said Richard, “I pray you do for him what you may, that he may at least have time for confession—Slay not soul and body—to him one half hour of time may be worth more, by ten thousand fold, than the life of the oldest patriarch.” “My royal brother’s wish shall be obeyed,” said Saladin. “Slaves, bear this wounded man to our tent.” “Do not so,” said the Templar, who had hitherto stood gloomily looking on in silence.—“The royal Duke of Austria and myself will not permit this unhappy Christian prince to be delivered over to the Saracens, that they may try their spells upon him. We are his sponsors, and demand that he be assigned to our care.” “That is, you refuse the certain means offered to recover him?” said Richard. “Not so,” said the Grand Master, recollecting himself.—“If the Soldan useth lawful medicines, he may attend the patient in my tent.” “Do so, I prithee, good brother,” said Richard to Saladin, “though the permission be ungraciously yielded.—But now to a more joyous work.—Sound, trumpets—shout, England—in honour of England’s champion!” Drum, clarion, trumpet, and cymbal, rung forth at once, and the deep and regular shout, which for ages has been the English acclamation, sounded amidst the shrill and irregular yells of the Arabs, like the diapason of the organ amid the howling of a storm. There was silence at length.

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“Brave Knight of the Leopard,” resumed Coeur de Lion, “thou hast shown that the Ethiopian may change his skin, and the leopard his spots, though clerks quote Scripture for the impossibility. Yet I have more to say to you when I have conducted you to the presence of the ladies, the best judges, and best rewarders, of deeds of chivalry.” The Knight of the Leopard bowed assent. “And thou, princely Saladin, wilt also attend them. I promise thee our Queen will not think herself welcome, if she lacks the opportunity to thank her royal host for her most princely reception.” Saladin bent his head gracefully, but declined the invitation. “I must attend the wounded man,” he said. “The leech leaves not his patient more than the champion the lists, even if he be summoned to a bower like those of Paradise—And farther, royal Richard, know that the blood of the East flows not so temperately in the presence of beauty as that of your land. What saith the Book itself—‘Her eye is as the edge of the sword of the Prophet, who shall look upon it?’ He that would not be burned avoideth to tread on hot embers—wise men spread not the flax before a bickering torch—He, saith the sage, who hath forfeited a treasure, doth not wisely turn back his head to gaze at it.” Richard, it may be believed, respected the motive of delicacy which flowed from manners so different from his own, and urged his request no further. “At noon,” said the Soldan as he departed, “I trust ye will all accept a collation under the black camel-skin tent of a chief of Kurdistan.” The same invitation was circulated among the Christians, comprehending all those of sufficient importance to be admitted to sit at a feast made for princes. “Hark!” said Richard, “the timbrels announce that our Queen and her attendants are leaving their gallery—and see, the turbans sink on the ground, as if struck down by a destroying angel. All lie prostrate, as if the glance of an Arab’s eye could sully the lustre of a lady’s cheek! Come, we will to the pavilion, and lead our conqueror thither in triumph.—How I pity that noble Soldan, who knows but of love as it is known to those of inferior nature!” Blondel tuned his harp to its boldest measure, to welcome the introduction of the victor into the pavilion of Queen Berengaria. He entered, supported on either side by his sponsors, Richard and William Long-Sword, the King’s natural brother, and knelt gracefully down before the Queen, though more than half the homage was silently rendered to Edith, who sat on her right hand.

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“Unarm him, my mistresses,” said the King, whose delight was in the execution of such chivalrous usages—“Let Beauty honour Chivalry! Undo his spurs, Berengaria; Queen though thou be, thou owest him what marks of worth thou canst give.—Unlace his helmet, Edith—by this hand thou shalt, wert thou the proudest Plantagenet of the line, and he the poorest knight on earth!” Both ladies obeyed the royal commands, Berengaria with bustling assiduity, as anxious to gratify her husband’s humour, and Edith blushing and growing pale alternately, as slowly and awkwardly she undid, with Long-Sword’s assistance, the fastenings, which secured the helmet to the gorget. “And what expect you from beneath this iron shell?” said Richard, as the removal of the casque gave to view the noble countenance of Sir Kenneth, his face glowing with recent exertion, and not less so with present emotion. “What think ye of him, gallants and beauties?” said Richard. “Doth he resemble an Ethiopian slave, or doth he present the face of an obscure and nameless adventurer? No, by my good sword!—Here terminate his various disguises. He hath knelt down before you unknown, save by his worth—he arises, equally distinguished by birth and by fortune. The adventurous knight, Kenneth, arises David Earl of Huntingdon, Prince Royal of Scotland!” There was a general exclamation of surprise, and Edith dropped from her hand the helmet, which she had just removed. “Yes, my masters,” said the King, “it is even so. Ye know how Scotland deceived us when she proposed to send this valiant Earl, with a bold company of her best and noblest, to aid our arms in this conquest of Palestine, but failed to comply with her engagements. This noble youth, under whom the Scottish crusaders were to have been arrayed, thought foul scorn that his arm should be withheld from the holy warfare, and joined us at Sicily with a small train of devoted and faithful attendants, which was augmented by many of his countrymen, to whom the rank of their leader was unknown. The confidants of the Royal Prince had all, saving one old follower, fallen by death, when his secret, but too well kept, had nearly occasioned my cutting off, in a Scottish adventurer, one of the noblest hopes of Europe.—Why did you not mention your rank, noble Huntingdon, when endangered by my hasty and passionate sentence?— Was it that you thought Richard capable of abusing the advantage I possessed over the heir of a King whom I have so often found hostile?” “I did you not that injustice, royal Richard,” answered the Earl of Huntingdon; “but my pride brooked not that I should avow myself

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Prince of Scotland in order to save my life, endangered for default of loyalty. And, moreover, I had made my vow to preserve my rank unknown till the crusade should be accomplished; nor did I mention it, save in articulo mortis, and under the seal of confession, to yonder reverend hermit.” “It was the knowledge of that secret, then, which made the good man so urgent with me to recal my severe sentence?” said Richard. “Well did he say that, had this good knight fallen by my mandate, I should have wished the deed undone though it had cost me a limb— A limb?—I should have wished it undone had it cost me my life— since the world would have said that Richard had abused the condition in which the heir of Scotland had placed himself, by his confidence in my generosity.” “Yet, may we know of your Grace by what strange and happy chance this riddle was at length read?” said the Queen Berengaria. “Letters were brought us from England,” said the King, “in which we learned, among other unpleasant news, that the King of Scotland had seized upon three of our nobles, when on a pilgrimage to Saint Ninian, and alleged as a cause, that his heir, long supposed to be fighting in the ranks of the Teutonic Knights against the heathen of Borussia, was, in fact, in our camp, and in our power; and, therefore, William proposed to hold these nobles as hostages for his safety. This gave me the first light on the real rank of the Knight of the Leopard, and my suspicions were confirmed by De Vaux, who, on his return from Ascalon, brought back with him the Earl of Huntingdon’s sole attendant, a thick-skulled slave, who had gone thirty miles to unfold to De Vaux a secret he should have told to me.” “Old Straughan must be excused,” said the Lord of Gilsland. “He knew from experience that my heart is somewhat softer than if I wrote myself Plantagenet.” “Thy heart soft? thou commodity of old iron!—thou Cumberland flint that thou art!” exclaimed the King.—“It is we Plantagenets who boast soft and feeling hearts, Edith,” turning to his cousin, with an expression which called the blood into her cheeks—“Give me thy hand, my fair cousin, and, Prince of Scotland, thine.” “Forbear, my lord,” said Edith, hanging back, and endeavouring to hide her confusion under an attempt to rally her royal cousin’s credulity. “Remember you not that my hand was to be the signal of converting to the Christian faith the Saracen and Arab, Saladin and all his turbaned host?” “Ay, but the wind of prophecy hath chopped about, and sits now in another corner,” replied Richard.

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“Mock not, lest your bands be made strong,” said the Hermit, stepping forwards. “The heavenly host write nought but truth in their brilliant records—it is men’s eyes which are too weak to read their characters aright. Know, that when Saladin and Kenneth of Scotland slept in my grotto, I read in the stars that there rested under my roof a prince, the natural foe of Richard, with whom the fate of Edith Plantagenet was to be united. Could I doubt that this must be the Soldan, whose rank was well known to me, as he often visited my cell to converse on the revolutions of the heavenly bodies? —Again, the lights of the firmament proclaimed that this prince, the husband of Edith Plantagenet, should be a Christian; and I,—weak and wild interpreter!—argued thence the conversion of the noble Soldan, whose good qualities seemed often to incline him towards the better faith. The sense of my weakness hath humbled me to the dust, but in the dust I have found comfort! I have not read aright the fate of others—who can assure me but what I may have miscalculated mine own? God will not have us break into his council house, or spy out his hidden mysteries. We must wait his time with watching and prayer—with fear and with hope. I came hither the stern seer—the proud prophet—skilled, as I thought, to instruct princes, and gifted even with supernatural powers, but burthened with a weight which I deemed no shoulders but mine could have borne. But my bands have been broken! I go hence humble in mine ignorance, penitent —and not hopeless.” With these words he withdrew from the assembly; and it is recorded, that, from that period, his frenzy fits seldom occurred, and his penances were of a milder character, and accompanied with better hopes of the future. So much is there of self-opinion, even in insanity, that the conviction of his having entertained and expressed an unfounded prediction with so much vehemence, seemed to operate like loss of blood on the human frame, to modify and lower the fever of the brain. It is needless to follow into further particulars the conferences at the royal tent, or to inquire whether David, Earl of Huntingdon, was as mute in the presence of Edith Plantagenet, as when he was bound to act under the character of an obscure and nameless adventurer, but it may be well believed that he there expressed, with suitable earnestness, the passion which he had so often before found it difficult to give words. The hour of noon now approached, and Saladin waited to receive the Princes of Christendom in a tent, which, but for its large size, differed little from that of the ordinary shelter of the common Kurdman, or Arab; yet, beneath its ample and sable covering, was prepared

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a banquet after the most gorgeous fashion of the East, extended upon carpets of the richest stuffs, with cushions laid for the guests. But we cannot stop to describe the cloth of gold and silver—the superb embroidery in Arabesque—the shawls of Caschmere—and the muslins of India, which were here unfolded in all their various colours. Far less to tell the different sweetmeats, ragouts edged with rice coloured in various manners, lambs roasted whole, and game and poultry dressed in pilaus, which displayed the variety of Eastern cookery and were piled in vessels of gold, silver, and porcelain, and intermixed with large mazers of sherbet, cooled in snow and ice from the caverns of Mount Lebanon. A magnificent pile of cushions at the head of the banquet, seemed prepared for the master of the feast, and such dignitaries as he might call to share that place of distinction, while, from the roof of the tent in all quarters, but over this seat of eminence in particular, waved many a banner and pennon, the trophies of battles won, and kingdoms overthrown. But amongst and above them all, a long lance displayed a shroud, the banner of Death, with this impressive inscription—“S  K     K   —S  V   V  —S             .” Amid these preparations, the slaves who had arranged these refreshments stood with drooped heads and folded arms, mute and motionless as monumental statuary, or as automata, which waited the touch of the artist to put them into motion. Expecting the approach of his princely guests, the Soldan, imbued, as most were, with the superstitions of his time, paused over a horoscope and corresponding scroll, which had been sent to him by the hermit of Engaddi when he departed from the camp. “Strange and mysterious science,” he muttered to himself, “which, pretending to draw the curtain of futurity, misleads those whom it seems to guide, and darkens the scene which it pretends to illuminate! Who would not have said that I was that enemy most dangerous to Richard, whose enmity was to be ended by marriage with his kinswoman? Yet it now appears that an union betwixt this gallant Earl and the lady will bring about friendship betwixt Richard and Scotland, an enemy more dangerous than I, as a wild-cat in a chamber is more to be dreaded than a lion in a distant desert.—But then,” he continued to mutter to himself, “the combination intimates, that this husband was to be Christian.—Christian?” he repeated, after a pause,— “That gave the insane fanatic hopes that I might renounce my faith! but me, the faithful follower of our Prophet—me it should have undeceived. Lie there, mysterious scroll,” he added, thrusting it under the pile of cushions; “strange are thy bodements and fatal, since, even when true in themselves, they work upon those who

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attempt to decypher their meaning all the effects of falsehood.— How now?—what means this intrusion?” He spoke to the dwarf Nectanabus, who rushed into the tent terribly agitated, with each strange and disproportioned feature wrenched by horror into still more extravagant ugliness,—his eyes open, his mouth staring, his hands, with their shrivelled and deformed fingers, wildly expanded. “What now?” said the Soldan, sternly. “Accipe hoc! ” groaned out the dwarf. “Ha! say’st thou?” answered Saladin. “Accipe hoc! ” replied the panic-struck creature, unconscious, perhaps, that he repeated the same words as before. “Hence, I am in no vein for foolery!” “Nor am I further fool,” said the dwarf, “than to make my folly help out my wit to earn my bread, poor hapless wretch!—Hear, hear me, great Soldan!” “Nay, if thou hast actual wrong to complain of,” said Saladin, “fool or wise, thou art entitled to the ear of a King.—Retire hither with me;” and he led him into the inner tent. Whatever their conference related to, it was soon broken off by the fanfare of the trumpets, announcing the arrival of the various Christian princes, whom Saladin welcomed to his tent with a royal courtesy well becoming their rank and his own; but chiefly, he saluted the young Earl of Huntingdon, and generously congratulated him upon prospects, which appeared to have interfered with and overclouded those which he had himself entertained. “But think not,” said the Soldan, “thou noble youth, that the Prince of Scotland is more welcome to Saladin, than was Kenneth to the solitary Ilderim when they met in the desert, or the distressed Ethiop to the Hakim Adonbec. A brave and generous disposition like thine hath a value independent of condition and birth, as the cool draught, which I here proffer thee, is as delicious from an earthen vessel as from a goblet of gold.” The Earl of Huntingdon made a suitable reply, gratefully acknowledging the various important services he had received from the generous Soldan; but when he had pledged Saladin in the bowl of sherbet, which the Soldan had proffered to him, he could not help remarking with a smile, “The brave cavalier, Ilderim, knew nought of the formation of ice, but the munificent Soldan cools his sherbet with snow.” “Wouldst thou have an Arab or a Kurdman as wise as a Hakim?” said the Soldan. “He who does on a disguise must make the sentiments of his heart and the learning of his head accord with the dress

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which he assumes. I desired to see how a brave and single-hearted cavalier of Frangistan would conduct himself in debate with such a chief as I then seemed; and I questioned the truth of a well-known fact, to know by what arguments thou wouldst support thy assertion.” While they were speaking, the Arch-Duke of Austria, who stood a little apart, was struck with the mention of iced sherbet, and took with some bluntness the deep goblet, as the Earl of Huntingdon was about to replace it. “Most delicious!” he exclaimed, after a deep draught, which the heat of the weather, and the feverishness following the debauch of the preceding day, had rendered doubly acceptable. He sighed as he handed the cup to the Grand Master of the Templars. Saladin made a sign to the dwarf, who advanced and pronounced, with a harsh voice, the words, Accipe hoc! The Templar started, like a steed who sees a lion under a bush beside the pathway; yet instantly recovered, and to hide, perhaps, his confusion, raised the goblet to his lips—But those lips never touched that goblet’s rim. The sabre of Saladin left its sheath as lightning leaves the cloud. It was waved in the air,—and the head of the Grand Master rolled to the extremity of the tent, while the trunk remained for a second standing with the goblet still clenched in its grasp, then fell, the liquor mingling with the blood that spouted from the veins. There was a general exclamation of treason, and Austria, nearest to whom Saladin stood with the bloody sabre in his hand, started back as if apprehensive that his turn was to come next. Richard and others laid hand on their swords. “Fear nothing, noble Austria,” said Saladin, as composedly as if nothing had happened, “nor you, royal England, be wroth at what you have seen. Not for his manifold treacheries;—not for the attempt which, as may be vouched by his own squire, he instigated against King Richard’s life;—not that he pursued the Prince of Scotland and myself in the desert, reducing us to save our lives by the speed of our horses;—not that he had stirred up the Maronites to attack us upon this very occasion, but had I not brought up unexpectedly so many Arabs as rendered the scheme abortive;—not for any or all of these crimes does he now lie there, although such were deserving such a doom;—but because, scarce half an hour ere he polluted our presence, as the simoom empoisons the atmosphere, he poniarded his comrade and accomplice, Conrade of Montserrat, lest he should confess the infamous plots in which they had been engaged.” “How! Conrade murdered?—And by the Grand Master, his sponsor and most intimate friend!” exclaimed Richard. “Noble Soldan, I would not doubt thee—yet this must be proved—otherwise——”

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“There stands the evidence,” said Saladin, pointing to the terrified dwarf. “Allah, who sends the fire-fly to illuminate the night season, can discover secret crimes by the most contemptible means.” The Soldan proceeded to tell the dwarf’s story, which amounted only to this.—In his foolish curiosity, with some thoughts of pilfering, Nectanabus had strayed into the tent of Conrade, which had been deserted by his attendants, some of whom had left the encampment to carry the news of his defeat to his brother, and others were availing themselves of the means which Saladin had supplied for revelling. The wounded man slept under the influence of Saladin’s wonderful talisman, so that the dwarf had opportunity to pry about at pleasure, until he was frightened into concealment by the sound of a heavy step. He skulked behind a curtain, yet could see the motions, and hear the words of the Grand Master, who entered, and carefully secured the covering of the pavilion behind him. His victim started from sleep, and it would appear that he instantly suspected the purpose of his old associate, for it was in a tone of alarm that he demanded wherefore he disturbed him. “I come to confess and to absolve thee,” answered the Grand Master. Of their further speech the terrified dwarf remembered little, save that Conrade implored the Grand Master not to break a wounded reed, and that the Templar struck him to the heart with a Turkish dagger, with the words accipe hoc—words which long afterwards haunted the terrified imagination of the concealed witness. “I verified the tale,” said Saladin, “by causing the body to be examined; and I made this unhappy being, whom Allah hath made the discoverer of the crime, repeat in your own presence the words which the murtherer spoke; and you yourselves saw the effect which they produced upon his conscience.” The Soldan paused, and the King of England broke silence. “If this be true, as I doubt not, we have witnessed a great act of justice, though it bore a different aspect. But wherefore in this presence? Wherefore with thine own hand?” “I had designed otherwise,” said Saladin; “but had I not hastened his doom, it had been altogether averted, since, if I had permitted him to taste of my cup, as he was about to do, how could I, without incurring the brand of inhospitality, have done him to death as he deserved? Had he murdered my father, and afterwards partaken of my food and my bowl, not a hair of his head could have been injured by me. But enough of him—let his carcase and his memory be removed from amongst us.” The body was carried away, and the marks of the slaughter

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obliterated or concealed, with such ready dexterity, as showed that the case was not altogether so uncommon as to paralyze the assistants and officers of Saladin’s household. But the Christian princes felt the scene which they had beheld weighed heavily on their spirits, and although, at the courteous invitation of the Soldan, they assumed their seats at the banquet, yet it was with the silence of doubt and amazement. The spirits of Richard alone surmounted all cause for suspicion or embarrassment. Yet he, too, seemed to ruminate on some proposition, as if he was desirous of making it in the most insinuating and acceptable manner which was possible. At length he drank off a large bowl of wine, and, addressing the Soldan, desired to know whether it was not true that he had honoured the Earl of Huntingdon with a personal encounter. Saladin answered with a smile, that he had proved his horse and weapons with the heir of Scotland, as cavaliers are wont to do with each other when they meet in the desert—and modestly added, that though the combat was not entirely decisive, he had not, on his part, much reason to pride himself on the event. The Scot, on the other hand, disclaimed the attributed superiority, and wished to assign it to the Soldan. “Enough of honour thou hast had in the encounter,” said Richard, “and I envy thee more for that, than for the smiles of Edith Plantagenet, though one of them might reward a bloody day’s work.—But what say you, noble princes; is it fitting that such a royal ring of chivalry should break up without something being done for future times to speak of? What is the overthrow and death of a traitor, to such a fair garland of honour as is here assembled, and which ought not to part without witnessing something more worthy of their regard? How say you, princely Soldan—What if we two should now, and before this fair company, decide the long contended question for this land of Palestine, and end at once these tedious wars? Yonder are the lists ready, nor can Paynimrie ever hope a better champion than thou. I, unless a worthier offers, will lay down my gauntlet in behalf of Christendom, and, in all love and honour, we will do mortal battle for the possession of Jerusalem.” There was a deep pause for the Soldan’s answer. His cheek and brow coloured highly, and it was the opinion of many present, that he hesitated whether he should accept the challenge. At length he said, “Fighting for the Holy City against those whom we regard as idolaters, and worshippers of stocks and stones, and graven images, I might confide that Allah would strengthen my arm; or, if I fell beneath the sword of the Melec Ric, I could not pass to Paradise by a more glorious death. But Allah has already given Jerusalem to the

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true believers, and it were tempting the God of the Prophet to peril, upon my own personal strength and skill, that which I hold securely by the superiority of my forces.” “If not for Jerusalem, then,” said Richard, in the tone of one who would entreat a favour of an intimate friend, “yet, for the love of honour, let us run at least three courses with grinded lances?” “Even this,” said Saladin, half smiling at Coeur de Lion’s affectionate earnestness for the combat, “even this I may not lawfully do. The master places the shepherd over the flock, not for the shepherd’s own sake, but for the sake of the sheep. Had I a son to hold the sceptre when I fell, I might have had the liberty, as I have the will, to brave this bold encounter; but your own Scripture sayeth, that, when the herdsman is smitten, the sheep are scattered.” “Thou hast had all the fortune,” said Richard, turning to the Earl of Huntingdon with a sigh. “I would have given the best year of my life for that one half hour beside the Diamond of the Desert!” The chivalrous extravagance of Richard awakened the spirits of the assembly, and when at length they arose to depart, Saladin advanced and took Richard by the hand. “Noble King of England,” he said, “we now part, never to meet again. That your league is dissolved, never to be reunited, and that your native forces are far too few to enable you to prosecute your enterprize, is as well known to me as to yourself. I may not yield you up that Jerusalem which you so much desire to hold. It is to us, as to you, a Holy City. But whatever other terms Richard demands of Saladin, shall be as willingly yielded as yonder fountain yields its waters. Ay, and the same should be as frankly afforded by Saladin, if Richard stood in the desert with but two archers in his train!” ———————— The next day saw Richard’s return to his own camp, and in a short space afterwards, the young Earl of Huntingdon was espoused to Edith Plantagenet. The Soldan sent, as a nuptial present on this occasion, the celebrated talisman; but though many cures were wrought by means of it in Europe, none equalled in success and celerity to those which the Soldan achieved. It is still in existence, having been bequeathed by the Earl of Huntingdon to a brave knight of Scotland, Sir Simon of the Lee, in whose ancient and highly honoured family it is still preserved; and although charmed stones have been dismissed from the modern Pharmacopeia, its virtues are still applied to for stopping blood, and in cases of canine madness.

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Our story closes here, as the terms on which Richard evacuated his conquests are to be found in every history of the period.  

ESSAY ON THE TEXT

1.       T H E T A L I S M A N 2.                 T H E T A L I S M A N : Timetable; the Manuscript; from Manuscript to Print; the Proofs; from Proofs to Print 3.   : octavo Tales and Romances (1827); duodecimo Tales and Romances (1827); 18mo Tales and Romances (1827 and 1828); the Interleaved Copy and the Magnum 4.    : Emendations from Manuscript and Proofs; Emendations from the Octavo, Interleaved Set and Magnum; Editorial Emendations; Proper Names; Conclusion. The following conventions are used in transcriptions from Scott’s manuscript and proofs: deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso; superscript letters are lowered without comment. The same conventions are used as appropriate for indicating variants between the printed editions.

1.    THE TALISMAN Scott first ‘met’ Saladin in the pages of Vertot’s The History of the Knights of Malta.1 He recalls in his ‘Memoirs’ that during a tedious adolescent illness ‘I fought my way . . . through Vertot’s Knights of Malta, a book which as it hovered between history and romance was exceedingly dear to me’.2 The year was probably 1786. In the following decade he read Hume’s History of England, and Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. As more fully detailed in the Historical Note (365–71) he was very familiar both with traditional tales from the East such as those found in the Arabian Nights, as well as the host of eighteenth-century imitations like James Ridley’s Tales of the Genii. He was fully up-to-date with the writings of his contemporaries: he had absorbed Southey, Byron and Moore’s oriental narratives, and even The Adventures of Hajji Baba, of Ispahan which was published only in 1824. A lifetime’s reading informs The Talisman. The genesis of Tales of the Crusaders has been previously described in the Essay on the Text to The Betrothed, but, in brief, the idea that he might write on the Crusades is first apparent at the end of Saint Ronan’s Well, which was published in three volumes on 27 December 1823, and included a joke advertisement (written on 11 December 1823),3 for an account of ‘The Siege of Ptolemais’ by The Rev. Josiah Cargill, Minister of the Gospel at Saint Ronan’s—in the novel, Cargill had been engaged in compiling a historical work on a crusading subject. Of course it cannot be determined whether Scott had already had the idea for Tales of the Crusaders or whether the joke sparked it 279

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off, but by January 1824 it is evident that plans were forming. On 13 January 1824 Robert Cadell, one of the partners in Archibald Constable and Co., Scott’s publishers, wrote in his diary that Scott had ‘mentioned his intention of making the book after St Ronans in two Vols: & another tale in the 3d Vol: or perhaps 2 stories in 4 Vols’.4 Cadell (and perhaps Scott too) had forgotten that Redgauntlet (which was already being written) was the next novel, but that is not significant: it is clear that Scott was thinking of a four-volume work consisting of two tales. By February the idea had settled into something like an intention. On 5 February Scott wrote to the theatrical manager Daniel Terry: ‘My present labours . . . comprehend two narratives in about two volumes each’.5 In a letter to Scott on 26 March 1824, thanking him for her copy of Saint Ronan’s Well, Lady Louisa Stuart, an intimate who knew of his authorship of the novels, asked: Is the Siege of Ptolemais really on the anvil, or announced to carry on Josiah Cargill’s history? I heartily hope the former, for I should have high expectations from it, the Crusades being a subject worthy of such a pen; and in this respect my appetite grows by what it feeds on, perhaps wanting more & more something to steal my thoughts away from painful contemplation.6 Scott replied with a long letter on 4 April, in which he confided: ‘I think the next will consist of two tales one of which will be an extract from the crusade history’.7 In an entry in his diary a month later (13 May) Cadell says he ‘wrote to Sir Walter about a Crusader story’,8 which suggests that Scott was continuing to discuss the subject with his business associates. Even although he was still writing Redgauntlet, his most personal novel about which he was quite secretive, Scott was thinking through a new work to be set in the time of the Third Crusade. It is not clear how formed Scott’s ideas were: they may still have been quite sketchy, but the overall structure of a pair of contrasting tales, one following the fortunes of a crusader ‘widow’ left behind in England, and the other following those of a crusader knight in the Holy Land, seems to have been in place by the time Scott finished Redgauntlet. He was still composing copy for and working on the proofs of that novel until at least 3 June, in addition to the proofs of the revised edition of Swift.9 Redgauntlet was published on 14 June but on the 16th, in a letter to his printer James Ballantyne, Scott wrote: I go to Abbotsford on Saturday [19 June] and shall send from thence or bring on my return on Tuesday the commencement of the Crusading tales. A good deal is already written but I want to consult books which I have there.10 Ballantyne evidently reported this to Cadell, who records on 18 June: ‘Ballantyne looked in, and mentioned that Sir W. S. had begun “Tales

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of the Crusaders”’.11 Evidence deducible from the manuscript of The Betrothed indicates that he began with that novel, and from letters between Scott and Ballantyne we know that it was being set up in type and proof-read in June and July. Tales of the Crusaders was under way. The development of Tales of the Crusaders may well have been influenced by personal circumstances. Scott had for some time thought of his elder son, Walter, who was pursuing a career in the army, in chivalric terms. In October 1823, he had written to Richard Heber praising his military qualities, and added that he was a fine person and just the stuff out of which would have been made in former days A verie parfite gentil knight.12

He had also written to John Richardson later in the year in similar terms: ‘Walter is really what you call a beau Cavalier’.13 In 1824 Walter was summoned to Abbotsford from a holiday in Kent and arrived at the end of July.14 When he came, Scott said in a letter to Lady Abercorn of 1 August, that he had much of the appearance of a wild Arab being burnt black with the late sunny days which he had spent in sketching and making military drawings in Kent and having chosen to let his moustaches and beard attain a formidable growth. He has really a most Saracenic appearance.15 He described his son’s appearance in similar terms in a letter to Lord Montagu on 3 August: ‘He is burnd as black as a Moor and being bearded like a pard was taken by the yeomanry for some stray Aid de Camp of the deceasd King Tamahmeah’.16 To Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe he wrote: ‘Walter is come from sketching in Kent black as the devil except a large pair of light grey eyes’.17 Thus it is more than likely that Scott’s presentation of Sir Kenneth and the Sultan in The Talisman derives from the strikingly unfamiliar appearance of his son. But the connection is deeper. As explained in the Essay on the Text of The Betrothed (282–83), since at least March 1824 Scott was trying to arrange that Walter would meet and (he hoped) decide to marry Jane Jobson, a niece of his old friend Sir Adam Ferguson. Jane’s father had died in 1822, and she was the heiress to a valuable estate at Lochore in Fife. The progress of the match between young Walter and Jane Jobson, which did indeed culminate in marriage on 3 February 1825, is more fully treated in the Essay on the Text of The Betrothed but the conclusion reached there is worth repeating: Thus when the author chooses to write in The Betrothed about two young people, one an orphaned heiress and the other a knight errant cautious about approaching the lady, and when a similar situation is at the centre of the companion novel, with the focus on the young man rather than the vulnerable young woman, it is

    possible to speculate that the pair of novels may have owed their origin to Scott’s perception of a potential romance in the family.18 The Betrothed and The Talisman are not just two tales of the Crusades, but are a pairing, one concentrating on the woman who is left behind by the Crusade, and the other on a young Scottish knight actuated by all the ideals of chivalry who overcomes hardships and humiliation on his way to winning the hand of his lady-love. A second factor which may have helped not the inception but the development of The Talisman were the visits to Abbotsford of John Carne (1789–1844) and Sir John Malcolm (1769–1853). Carne travelled in the East in 1821, and visited Abbotsford, probably in 1824. He must have asked Scott if he could dedicate the book arising from his travels to him, for on 23 November 1824 Scott graciously accepted; he commented on ‘the specimens which you had the goodness to give us at Abbotsford’,19 and the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography notes that Carne’s ‘friends rated him more as a story-teller than as a writer, and he often captivated audiences by his tales’. Malcolm was probably more important. He was a longtime friend of Scott and formerly Envoy of the Indian Government to Persia, and during his visit to Abbotsford in October 1824 he told eastern tales: long afterwards William Bewick, an artist who was resident at the same time as Malcolm, wrote: ‘Sir John, like our distinguished host, was a capital storyteller, and would charm the whole household from tea to bed-time with long Persian stories’, and he talks of Scott ‘rubbing his hands and chuckling with delight’.20 It is impossible to tell whether Scott adopted anything from Malcolm’s story-telling, or even if he was inspired by it, but given his huge responsiveness to the oral tale whether in verse or prose it is very likely that Malcolm’s stories had a direct effect on The Talisman. The contract for Tales of the Crusaders is also more fully treated in the Essay on the Text of The Betrothed, but in essence the Tales were covered by a rolling contract between Scott and his publishers which kept him bound to Archibald Constable and Co., while he received a steady income from them. When he finished Saint Ronan’s Well there were outstanding contracts for three novels, each unspecified, but which turned out to be Redgauntlet, Tales of the Crusaders, and a third one which was never written.21 The agreement which covered Tales of the Crusaders was probably signed on or about 8 October 1822, and for it Scott received an advance of £2500.22 This document has not been located, but if it were like its predecessors it would have offered Archibald Constable and Co. a licence to sell 10,000 copies of a threevolume novel, to be manufactured by James Ballantyne and Co., with half the ‘profits’ going to the author. The ‘profits’ were the incoming monies less the direct costs of paper, printing and binding, and advertising. To lessen the risk Constable normally sold about two-thirds of 282

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any imprint to their London associates (The Heart of Mid-Lothian is the one exception), but concluding a deal took a long time in the case of Tales of the Crusaders; it was not until 7 May 1825 that Cadell made a bargain with Hurst, Robinson.23 2.    THE TALISMAN Timetable. While work on The Betrothed progressed in June and July 1824, there were many distractions. It was during the Scotts’ habitual summer residence (from July to November) at Abbotsford that the final stages of the work on the new buildings were completed. The library was still being worked on in April, and Scott spent a week in early May on the ‘herculean labour’ of trying to get it ‘into some rough order’.24 At some point later, George Huntly Gordon (the profoundly deaf minister who could not get a charge and whom Scott used as copyist and librarian) came to stay in order to help to arrange the books. On 3 August Scott was able to say, in a letter to Constable, ‘Almost all our long job here is now ended . . . The library is uncommonly handsome and quite full nay overflowing into my study which is also shelved.’25 On 17 August he wrote to ‘Mr. Baird plasterer Edin.’, thanking him for completing his ‘complicated and difficult work very much to my satisfaction’.26 Once this was achieved, there was a stream of visitors, either to admire or to stay, and in September there were as many as a dozen house guests. Writing to Constable from Abbotsford on 19 September, Scott complains ‘such has been the curiosity of tourists that I am obliged to shut my doors against all but friends otherwise we should not have a moments quiet’,27 and, early the following morning, he writes to James Ballantyne ‘I send proofs & copy—the last written by driblets as I can catch a moment —but all our friends are now off today & tomorrow & I shall work hard’.28 He goes on to discuss his plans for raising a further loan ‘as I am rather behind with my pen’ and for paying off his remaining debt to John Usher, from whom he had bought Toftfield (renamed Huntlyburn by Scott) in 1817: I trusted to the 4th volume of Crusaders for this & still think I will get it forward by the end of that month or beginning of December. I have however been dreadfully interrupted these several weeks past.29 Reference to the ‘4th volume of Crusaders’ suggests that Scott’s plans for The Talisman were intact, even if he had not yet begun to compose it; and he seems to have envisaged being able to write the two volumes of the second novel in the ensuing two months or so, which implies that he knew what he wanted to write. There is no news of progress with either novel in October, but he received a letter from Ballantyne

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dated 8 November offering adverse criticism of the novel in hand. He replied on the 11th: I am not very apprehensive of [not] finding some remedy for the failure which you very justly announce but I greatly doubt your recipe. Whatever has happend may happen again under the same circumstances. Constable I fear had mor[e] shrewdness than either of us when he recommended a fallow . . . I never fail to consider your opinion as completely authoritative upon general results especially when as in the present case it completely coincides with my own for you must not think thus as Dorax says to Sebastian Thou hast dared To tell me what I durst not tell myself.

I have been often slow to see merits which others have discoverd—never so to acknowlege defects.30 Cadell added a note to this on 13 November: ‘The Annexed letter is the reply to one written to Sir Walter condemning the Tales of the Crusaders (the Betrothed)’. This crisis in the writing of The Betrothed and its failure to win approval from his associates seems to have brought a long pause, certainly for the rest of the year, and possibly for even longer than that. It may be that it was at this hiatus that Scott turned to writing The Talisman, but we hear nothing of it until the end of the year. Nonetheless, in October and November, Constable and Co. continued to be in negotiation with Hurst, Robinson about the size of their order for Crusaders and the price they would pay for it.31 Cadell (who conducted the business in Edinburgh while Constable was indisposed at Polton House, his home 10 km south of Edinburgh) seems to have relished the hard-driven discussions; in a letter to Constable on 30 November, he quoted his most recent letter to Hurst, Robinson: ‘We must decline your offer for the Crusaders—arguments are amusing in such matters’.32 On 15 December Constable wrote to Hurst, Robinson and referred to the Crusaders which ‘will be out we hope early in the approaching year’.33 This may have been a brave front, in view of the meeting described in the next paragraph. It seems that Scott began writing The Talisman at some point in the autumn, probably after the exchange of letters in November. Cadell records in his diary for 17 December: Called at Ballantynes, . . . heard a part of the Talisman read . . . spoke with Mr Constable about the course to be pursued about the Talisman—went to Ballantyne again on the subject . . . met James Ballantyne at ½ p 3 & went to Sir Walters, missed him but called back & arranged that the “Betrothed” is to be laid aside.34 He reported this visit to Constable the same evening:

 285 James Ballantyne thought it was better to go hotfoot to Sir Walter, & wished me to accompany him, we met with a most welcome reception, the same thing occurred to himself, and he is most happy to adopt the plan—but wishes some sheets of the “Talisman” set up.35 This is clearly a crucial point in the progress of both novels, since it seems that the partners had agreed to abandon The Betrothed, and for the time being to concentrate on The Talisman instead. And so it is reasonable to interpret for a while any references to copy and proofs as referring to the second novel. There is some evidence that the first four sheets were already at the printers by 17 December (see 297 below), in spite of what Cadell says. In a letter of 26 December from Abbotsford Scott says he returns ‘the proof and more proof. Be it for good or for evil I am glad to become more in full motion’.36 In his diary entry for 29 December Cadell records that he ‘called at Ballantynes . . . got first three sheets of the Talisman . . . read these first sheets of the Talisman to Anne’.37 So, the first 48 pages (up to 21.17 in the present text) of The Talisman was both in type and proofread by the end of 1824. But Scott was now severely distracted by other events, and once more the story of Christmas 1824 to 3 February 1825 follows what has already been recounted in the Essay on the Text in The Betrothed. There was a huge house-party at Abbotsford over New Year 1825, culminating in a ball on 9 January.38 The acquaintance of young Walter and Jane Jobson was finally beginning to blossom, but Mrs Jobson disapproved of the proposed match. Scott was ‘mortified’.39 He wrote a very long letter to Sir Adam Ferguson,40 whose wife was Mrs Jobson’s sister, and by 21 January the acquiescence of Mrs Jobson to their marriage was obtained.41 Then, on 19 January, Lady Alvanley, an old friend, died while on a visit to Edinburgh; Scott had to make arrangements for her funeral, which took place on 24 January, and deal with sundry distraught members of her family. Charles Erskine, his Sheriff Substitute who carried out much of the routine business for Scott as Sheriff of Selkirkshire, died on 26 January, causing Scott a major problem. The wedding of the young couple took place in Edinburgh on 3 February. During this period it is probable that Scott did not add to The Talisman: when in Edinburgh copy and proofs must have been hand-delivered to the printing house, but even so there is no hint of Scott’s sending new copy to Ballantyne in January 1825. However, Cadell was beginning to rethink his position on The Betrothed. In the entry in his diary for 15 February 1825 he records that he was busy ‘all forenoon with Mr C[onstable] & Ballantyne about the Crusaders, fixed to bring out the Betrothed & the Talisman in consequence of Reports being abroad about 2 Vols being cancelled

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& a Volume being printed in Germany—Ballantyne wrote to Sir Walter on the subject’.42 The only sure way of showing that Walladmor, purporting to be by Friedrich August Herbig, freely translated from the English of Walter Scott (‘Frei nach dem Englischen des Walter Scott’), was a hoax, and that two volumes of a novel written by Scott had not been cancelled, was to publish a new work. In consequence the following day Scott ‘agreed to go on with Talisman & make 4 Vols of it along with the Betrothed’.43 In other words, Scott’s original scheme had been reinstated. Cadell was in London in March and April, and correspondence between him and his partner Constable provides some glimpses of Scott’s progress with The Talisman. On 5 March, Constable told Cadell: ‘The Crusaders proceed. I have just had a call from the Author who is not to Visit London this Spring as he at one time intended and is to labour hard in the Country at least such is his present resolve.’44 On 15 March he reported ‘The first Tale of the Crusaders is finished’,45 and on 23 March he comments: ‘I presume the third Vol is well advanced’.46 From London, Cadell reported on the expectations aroused there for the new work, and requested specimens, so as to increase the advance subscription: ‘The last clean sheet of the Crusaders V. III will do, & the farther on the better’.47 Constable wrote on 30 March, sending specimens of some new books ‘as far as ready’ and ‘a memd of expectations as to future progress—the most important of all, the Crusaders, by no means so far advanced as I expected—but there are some additional sheets in hand. I have written to him on the subject of the general feeling of anxiety for the Work.’48 Meanwhile, Constable & Co. were in correspondence with other booksellers about it: ‘We do not expect that “Tales of the Crusaders,” will be ready for publication earlier than in May next’,49 John Kempston of Dublin was told on 31 March. On 6 April Cadell says that he had informed Ballantyne that the subscription (i. e. advance orders from booksellers) for Crusaders had ‘increased considerably’ and ‘pressed the completion of the book most urgently’.50 He gave the current subscription as 4724 sets (and in a letter of 14 April, this had become 6500). On 15 April Constable told Cadell: ‘I expect to be able to send you the 3d. Volume Complete early next Week. McCorquodale [Ballantyne’s foreman] told me yesterday Copy was in hands for the Conclusion of it’,51 but Constable still had problems with lack of text a week later, on 22 April: I was anxious to hand you the 3d Vol of the Crusaders, & also Vol 2 but Ballantyne has not yet sent me them there are some sheets of Vol 2. to Hand over till towards the end, but I was promised the third complete two days ago.52 But by 26 April Cadell had received Volumes 2 and 3.53 Scott had left Edinburgh on 13 March, following the end of the

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legal term on 11 March, and was at Abbotsford (probably continuously) from then until 11 May, the Court of Session resuming on 12 May. He must have been working hard on The Talisman. In a letter of 22 April to James Ballantyne he concluded ‘I shall be in real good humour with my task should it continue to please you’; it is clear that the story was going well, indeed so well that he also comments: ‘If I succeed I may make a sort of continuation bringing home Richd. and giving an account of his captivity. Perhaps the tale is threadbare.’54 In other words he had the passing idea of making the tale of Blondel, whom tradition credited with searching for and finding the imprisoned Richard, into a sequel if The Talisman were successful. But he was still producing more copy for the first volume of The Talisman, even although Constable and Cadell thought he had got to the end, for he says to Ballantyne: In the paging the proof sent you will observe that I am repeating more numbers for the purpose of maintaining my calculation & making up for more pages necessarily added to Vol.III. I think I have a good plot with two secrets in it.55 Scott is referring to the numbering of manuscript leaves (see 289–90 below), and the issue is clear: in the manuscript Scott ended Volume 3 after Chapter 11, but the Volume was short, amounting to only 290 printed pages. He therefore transferred the first two chapters of Volume 4 (as defined in the manuscript) to Volume 3, 35 printed pages in all, and in so doing he created a much more dramatic conclusion to the first volume. He seems to have realised that, in order to balance the two volumes, he would need to write more than he had planned, although in fact the two novels are almost exactly the same length, each 278 pages in this present edition. Further insight into the progress of The Talisman comes from a production crisis. A large batch (400 reams) of paper made by Key proved to be of inferior quality and to have been made up in quires of different sizes. It was intended, wrote Constable, for ‘the conclusion of the Tales of the Crusaders’;56 he continued: ‘there are half a dozen of Sheets ready for Press & only 50 reams to go on with . . . The Author & Printer are ready to go on—& we have no Paper’. Constable was so very agitated (‘If the Crusaders cannot be published with[in] a month or six weeks, the Season is lost’) that he devoted his whole letter to this one subject. He had been forced to order paper from a local supplier, Alexander Cowan of Penicuik, which would take another three weeks to arrive. In the event Cadell secured replacement supplies in London57 but what is revealing is the extent to which Scott had forged ahead not only with writing the novel but with the revising in proof which was habitual with him: six sheets to print, nearly a hundred pages of the novel, was not inconsiderable. Further, a scrap of paper bound between pages 4 and 5 of Volume

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4 of the proofs, dated 28 April 1825 and probably in Cadell’s hand, indicates that he had likely read as far as the end of gathering H in Volume 4 by this date. It is a kind of quiz, possibly a consequence of Scott telling James that he has ‘a good plot with two secrets in it’, in which the answers may have been supplied by Scott: I wager El Hakim is the Soldan— yes Sir Kenneth son to William of Scotland. yes Edith sister to Richard no The Nubian is perhaps Sir Kenneth— yes The King discoverd Sir Kenneths disguise perhaps by his ruby ring he got from Edith no, by sucking his wound. This could not have been written until the writer had read to the end of Chapter 6, and he could not have read as far as Chapter 8 in which the sucking of the wound takes place; the scrap of paper therefore suggests that half of Volume 4 was in type, proof-read, and fit for Cadell to inspect by 28 April. On 29 April Scott sent some more proofs to Ballantyne.58 He sent an addition on 15 May,59 which will have involved the resetting of the end of Chapter 22, together with ‘a lot of copy and proof’ and pronounced ‘The work now approaches its end’. This will explain why Cadell, now back in Edinburgh, called on James Ballantyne on 16 May ‘in consequence of a letter from Sir Walter about the conclusion of the Crusaders’;60 on 20 May he sent some sheets of the Crusaders to several of Constable’s business customers;61 on 25 May, he discussed the payment for ‘4 Vol of Crusaders’ with Ballantyne (in other words the fourth volume as it was not covered by the rolling contract), and later dined with him, and ‘met Sir W Scott & Mr Lockhart’.62 This may have been a business meeting, but equally it may have been an evening to celebrate the approaching conclusion of Tales of the Crusaders—but The Talisman was not quite there, for on Monday 30 May Scott sent more proof and copy and promised ‘you will certainly have the last on Wednesday at furthest’.63 On 31 May Cadell ‘read part of the Talisman’; on the next night ‘read the Talisman, much charmed with it. sat late at it’, and again on 2 June ‘retd. at 10—finishd all Third of the Talisman’, which probably means that he got through the third volume of the Crusaders.64 There is no further reference to The Talisman before publication, so it is likely that it was now finished. However, it seems that The Betrothed still remained incomplete; as discussed in the Essay on the Text to The Betrothed (292–93) Scott still had to revise the conclusion, and to prepare the prelims, but it seems likely that he had done this by around the end of the first week in June. Now the processes of publication went forward unhampered. Constable & Co. wrote to Hurst, Robinson on Friday 17 June to say that Crusaders had been shipped per steamer the same day, and should

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arrive on Monday or Tuesday.65 According to the Press the publication date was Thursday 23 June 1825, but complimentary copies had been sent out in advance. In a short letter to Lockhart on 21 June Scott wrote: ‘I send you the inclosed which looks very well’. The Manuscript. The manuscript is in the collection of the State Historical Museum, Moscow, bound as a single volume. It was purchased at auction in 1868 by the great Russian collector Count OrloffDavidoff, who had visited Abbotsford at the age of 16 in November 1825 while studying in Edinburgh, soon after the publication of the novel.66 It is not known when the Orloff-Davidoff collections were transferred to the Russian or Soviet state. The text starts an inch or so from the top of a leaf, with none of the preliminaries that appear in the manuscript of The Betrothed, such as the title Tales of the Crusaders, The Talisman, the volume number, or even the chapter number. Someone (not Scott) has identified it by writing ‘Crusaders—The Talisman’ in pencil at the top of the first leaf. Each leaf is numbered by Scott in the top left-hand corner, and the leaves are bound in their proper order in the volume, although there seem to have been several disruptions during composition, which led to some missing numbers, renumberings, and additional leaves. In Volume 3, the sequence runs from 1 to 74, but there seems never to have been a 63, as the text flows easily from 62 to 64 (101.12–13); leaves 21 and 22 are lost. A small disturbance occurred when, after 9, another leaf was given the same number, followed by 10 and 11. These three were re-numbered 10–12, but then the sequence started again from 12. When he began the fourth volume (at what is now Volume 3, Chapter 12), Scott started another sequence at 1. This ran to 25 (of which 4 is lost). Then there is a sequence *16–*20, followed by another sequence that begins at 21 and runs to 82 (81 seems never to have existed, as the transition from 80 to 82 is in mid-sentence at 277.18). In the fourth volume there are two extra leaves which are blank on the recto but have additions on the verso, one between 25 and *16 and one (numbered *67) between 67 and 68. The whole volume has also been numbered in sequence for library purposes. Scott normally indicates the start of a new chapter by writing ‘Chapter’, but he does not always number them. As remarked above, the third volume and its first chapter are not identified at all on the manuscript, but ‘Chapt. II’ and ‘Chapt. III’ are there, followed by ‘Chapt.’ for the next eight chapters. He originally started the fourth volume at what is now Chapter 12 in Volume 3, so the heading ‘Vol. IV. Chapter 1st’ appears there. The beginning of the next chapter was presumably on f. 4 and is missing, but ‘Chapter III’ appears at the head of what

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is now the first chapter of Volume 4, and thereafter he wrote simply ‘Chapter’. There is no trace of the change in the distribution of chapters between volumes in the manuscript, but it was effected early, probably while Scott was writing the original third chapter of the fourth volume. The reason for the revised break between volumes is that he realised that the first volume was short: as indicated above (287) around 325 pages was normal, but the first volume of The Talisman came out originally at 290 pages. Scott was normally precise in these matters: on f. 56v (opposite to f. 57, which contains the text on 91.32–93.8 of this edition), there is a sum which suggests that Scott was calculating how much more he needed to write: 2 )56 28 — 84 In other words, he thought that he needed to write another 28 leaves (half as much again as he had already written) in order to complete Volume 3. He then continued writing for some time, well on into the next volume, before realising that he had not fulfilled the task he had set himself. However, the final 17 leaves of Volume 3, together with the transfer of two chapters (leaves 1–9) from Volume 4 to Volume 3 closely approaches the target he had calculated. He may also have seen that this major surgery would produce the bonus of a highlydramatic climax to the third volume. The change must have been effected after all 290 pages of Volume 3 had been set in type (the discrepancy would not otherwise have been noticed), but before he had received proofs of any part of Volume 4 because the proofs of that volume do not register the disturbance. In Volume 4 also, Scott made a revision of the structure, by deciding to divide an existing chapter into two. He seems to have realised that Chapter 7 was getting rather long, so he introduced the chapter heading for Chapter 8, the motto and an opening sentence for the new chapter on the facing verso (f. 33v). By this means he contrived to make the incident of the Nubian’s protection of Richard and its aftermath more isolated and dramatic. Later on in the volume Scott got involved in some more calculations relating to length, which appear on f. 54v: 53) 253 (5 5)80(5) 54 — 255 16 11 2 — 22 The first of these appears to be a simple computation of how many pages of print were produced from a page of manuscript, which was

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regularly between four and five. Page 253 of the third volume in the first edition contains the beginning of f. 54, so he is calculating from the point he had reached in the writing (it seems that the typesetting had kept right up with him). The second sum told him that to add a further 80 pages of print (to bring the volume to its normal length) he would need to write about 16 pages of manuscript. In fact, he wrote another 27 or so (equal to 110 printed pages), of which ‘The Bloody Vest’ takes up three and a half leaves of manuscript, and about the same number of printed pages, thus qualifying the calculations about both print and holograph. The third sum is less transparent, but it seems to predict a further 22 pages of manuscript—perhaps he had 11 in hand and thought a further 11 would be necessary to come to a conclusion. Overall the manuscript of The Talisman is relatively free of significant alterations or revisions. Scott was in the habit of making minor changes on the text page (if there was room), but adding additions or revisions longer than a word or two on the facing verso (if he had it to hand), and indicating with a caret where the addition should be located in the main text. Of the 164 extant leaves, 39 are completely blank on the verso. In some cases this may be because that leaf had formed the outside of a packet sent away to the copyist (Scott’s original was copied before being put in the hands of the printers), but this can only be confirmed in about half-a-dozen cases, when they show clear signs of having been folded and are grubby on the outside, or the next recto has had to have additions crammed on to it, even in the left-hand margin, because Scott did not have the facing verso to hand. In contrast, only about 33 facing versos have more than three or four major additions or alterations written on them. On more than 40% of the facing leaves there may be one or two phrases or single words added there, but no more. The general impression is that in this novel Scott was in full control of the detail of his narrative and of its shaping, and had relatively few second thoughts. Minor alterations do exist, of course, but the flow of composition seems to have been very easy and steady. The integration of the two poems into the prose around them is further evidence of the smoothness of the whole process of composition (in contrast to the two poems in The Betrothed which are not included in the surviving manuscript, and were presumably composed on separate sheets, and submitted to the copyist subsequently). Here, however, the two songs are integrated into the text, being written continuously with the prose (‘Ahriman’ 29.24–30.34; and ‘The Bloody Vest’ 241.12–242.6 and 243.8–244.27). ‘Ahriman’ is not given a title in the manuscript. It is not a fair copy from somewhere else, since it contains ten corrected errors and rewritings, such as a deleted attempt at a line after 29.37 (‘〈what vails the niggard

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born〉’), a rewriting in 29.42 (‘The 〈weapons of th〉 arrows of thy quiver—’), and, among other small changes, the replacement of ‘〈the〉’ by ‘such’ in 30.26. ‘The Bloody Vest’ shows fewer signs of composition at the moment and could perhaps have been composed elsewhere and copied into the manuscript, but the final four lines of the fifth stanza (242.3–6) appear in the manuscript as replacements for four lines that were deleted at the top of f. 60, and there is a deletion (‘〈sends Champion on danger like thou〉’) in 243.40 which is replaced immediately by ‘prompts . . . run’, both of which point to composition at the time of writing. An examination of some of Scott’s writing practices illustrates the kind of thing that had to be attended to in the process that led to publication. He marked the beginning of a sentence with a capital letter, and used either a short dash or a full stop at the end. Apart from this, and his use of inverted commas for speech, his punctuation is sparse, and he expected that the printing-house would present his text in an acceptable manner. He rarely indented paragraphs, but wrote ‘NL’ (New Line) between sentences to indicate where they started. Sometimes he reached the right-hand edge of the leaf in the middle of a phrase but did not continue it in the next line. It is not possible to decide in these cases between Scott being so eager to continue that he thought that he had completed the phrase, or perhaps being distracted at the change of line, and not re-reading carefully when he resumed. An example is at 10.28 where ‘so’ is at the end of the line; in this case, the sentence seems to have remained incomplete in the transcript, since it was still ‘so’ on the proofs, where Ballantyne prompted Scott to complete it. Similarly, ‘to’ is at the end of the line (11.19) but the sentence is incomplete, with ‘mine’ supplied later by copyist or printer. At 139.36 ‘con’ is at the end of the line, and the next line starts with ‘rebuke’. In some cases a problematic word at the end of the line led to misreading (the emendation proposed here in 97.13, for instance; and the one at 168.12, which derives from a word split across lines in the manuscript). Occasionally Scott seems to have left a space deliberately, as at 48.11 where there is room at the end of the line for about three words after ‘court’, but did not return to it later. Since there was no loss of sense in this case, nothing was done about this subsequently. A different form of omission occurs at 150.9 where several words were omitted in mid-line after ‘enabled’. Perhaps here, too, Scott had left his task and did not notice the discontinuity when he returned. In this instance, a whole line was left blank in the printed proofs so that he could complete the sentence. Another cause of lacunae in the manuscript can be found at some of the transitions from one sheet to the next. Scott is usually careful to repeat the first word of the next sheet at the foot of the previous

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one as a catchword, so that the composition remains continuous, but there are occasions where his system breaks down. At 179.28 ‘brave’ is the catchword at the foot of f. 26, but is not repeated on f. 27. Indeed, the next words ‘men follow’ do not appear on the manuscript at all, but have been supplied by the intermediaries on the proof. Omissions of the type mentioned above indicate that Scott was writing at great speed, which naturally led also to the mis-writing of words and phrases. He generally noticed these and corrected them as he went. A handful of examples will show him at work, such as ‘〈Selt Selt〉 Seljook’ (21.43) where he struggles with an unfamiliar word, or ‘〈Christian〉 heathen’ (78.11) where he has carelessly written the same word as in the previous line without regard to sense, or ‘〈pattron〉 patron’ (237.31) where he instantly corrects his own spelling. Given the fluency of so much of the manuscript, the places where Scott showed less confidence are interesting. Some leaves do seem to have been more prone to error, suggesting that his attention sometimes wandered. For instance, f. 21 of Volume 4 (151.18–153.10) contains a number of careless and uncorrected slips, such as ‘reverentiential’ (151.41), ‘they’ for ‘thy’ (152.8), ‘he is the ever did so’ (152.13), ‘on’ for ‘of ’ (152.14), ‘demanst’ for ‘demands’ (152.20), the omission of ‘Edith’ at the start of a new line (152.25), ‘he wore 〈over which〉 he wore’ (152.35), ‘the we weight’ (153.9), and ‘able’ for ‘above’ (153.9). Some of these illustrate Scott’s occasional tendency towards dittography. This, too, can sometimes occur in minor concentrations (13.29 ‘and and careless’, and ‘charactererized’). The fact that such errors were not corrected on the manuscript suggests that Scott did not always notice what he had written before he passed it to the copyist. But they were all sorted out by the intermediaries. Sometimes also Scott repeated something he had written not long before, and neither he nor the intermediaries tidied it up. For instance, at 153.13 he repeats the information that Richard was lying on his couch, having already begun the previous paragraph in the same way (152.32). This example of repetition escaped Ballantyne, who normally pounced on such things. Another type of mistake that is generally picked up by the intermediaries but can be amusing to the reader of the manuscript is Scott’s occasional tendency to write a homophone for the word he intended. Some examples of night/knight may be illustrative. At 160.6 he wrote ‘night’ instead of ‘knight’, which was corrected before the proofs; the same mistake at 126.3 led to ‘wight’ in the first edition, but has been interpreted as ‘knight’ in the present text. The reverse mistake was made in the manuscript at 130.5 when Scott inadvertently wrote that the ‘warmth of an Eastern knight occasiond the undress of Queen Berengaria’, which fortunately was corrected by the intermediaries. It is almost as if Scott’s attention

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was still gripped by the indelicacy of Kenneth’s intrusion into the tent. In this context, it is worth noticing some idiosyncratic features of the manuscript which do not appear in printed editions of the text. In general, Scott’s spelling shows the effect of his education in the 1780s, at a time when forms had not become fully standardised. Such spellings as ‘attonement’ (176.18), ‘chuse’ (61.18), ‘masque’ (96.16), ‘relique’ (43.6), and ‘stile’ (13.39), among many others, were all quite acceptable at the time, but were changed in the first edition to what are now their standard forms. Other spellings, which may seem to be in error, such as ‘echoe’ (99.7), ‘feind’ (157.12), ‘mottoe’ (4.41), and ‘vouchsaved’ (50.22), were corrected before they reached print. Other eighteenth-century writing practices that appear in the manuscript but were smoothed away by the process of publication include the spelling of the past tense, which Scott regularly wrote as ‘obtaind’ (3.8), ‘calld’ (3.12), ‘toild’ (3.15), but which became ‘obtained’, ‘called’ and ‘toiled’ in print. Similarly, the second person singular of the present tense appears in the manuscript consistently as ‘wouldst’ (11.11), ‘doest’ (11.12), ‘sayst’ (11.40), but was altered for the first edition. Because Scott’s spellings represent a different pronunciation and therefore a different rhythm to the spoken word, as well as hinting at an older speech than that of 1825, manuscript spellings have often been restored here. One other category that should be re-emphasised is Scott’s customary light punctuation, which the first edition usually formalised with frequent use of commas and semi-colons. One interesting orthographical case is Scott’s quite frequent use of the long initial ‘s’ (especially for some reason in the fourth volume), which occasioned some misinterpretations by the copyist. He also often employs it as the first element of double ‘s’. Scott’s use of it at the beginning of words is commonest with proper names such as Saladin, Saracen, Soldan, and Saxon where it alternates with ‘S’, but he also slips into using it in common nouns and other words, too, such as ‘so’ (25.2), ‘saved’ (31.28 where it was misread, thus generating an emendation in the present text), ‘should’ (116.33), ‘scroll’ (199.11), ‘shut’ (245.28) and even ‘snorting’ (266.29). ‘She’, both at the start of a sentence and within it, is quite frequently spelled with the long s, too, but the prize example, which led to a corrupted reading in all previous texts is ‘superior’ (223.14), where the copyist was misled by the conjunction of long s and p into seeing ‘Sy’ and thus reading and writing the word as ‘Syrian’; the manuscript reading has been adopted here. Capitalisation of individual words, too, is very various in the manuscript, with ‘Bishop’, ‘Crusader’, ‘Knight’, ‘Palm-trees’, and many others appearing alongside their uncapitalised forms. The intermedi-

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aries generally standardised them one way or the other. On the other hand, ‘heaven’, ‘prophet’, and ‘saracen’ often appear without capitals, and even ‘knight of the leopard’ which is virtually a proper name is frequently written without its capitals. This variability stretches to several of the proper names themselves, such as Saladin (who appears as Saladine and Saladim), Adonbec (Adonebec, Adonbeck), Sheerkoph (Sheerkohf, Sheerkopf, Sheerkof), and Alan (the original name of the hero) which occurs sometimes as Allan. Nectanabus, too, was spelled variously in the manuscript which later caused evident confusion for the printers. Scott named the anchoret Hierome at his first mention (19.36; he is not named in the manuscript at 18.42), but then ran through four different versions of Theodorick. The matter was only settled in proof. Finally, one impenetrable puzzle that appears in the manuscript is the change of name of the central figure from Alan to Kenneth at the very first word of the fourth chapter. Scott did not write ‘Alan’ and then change it, but launched straight in with the new name. The previous chapters had already been set up in type and the name used there was subsequently emended, but there is no clue in the manuscript or elsewhere for this sudden change of mind. A guess may be hazarded that Scott decided to draw on the aura of Kenneth mac Alpin, the founding father of the Scottish dynasty in the ninth century, to add lustre to his young hero, but it is only a guess. From Manuscript to Print. The Talisman is the last but one of the Waverley Novels to be written while Scott’s authorship was still being denied or concealed from the public. Even the guests in his own house were kept in ignorance, as is shown by an anecdote related by William Bewick who was visiting at the same time as David Wilkie, who was there to paint a portrait of Scott, and Sir John Malcolm. Bewick tells of an early morning encounter, which may perhaps be ben trovato but is redolent of the time: Sir John Malcolm came to me in the library one morning before breakfast—no one else was there—and sotto voce asked, ‘Pray, Mr. Bewick, is there such a thing in your room as a Waverley Novel? I have contrived to be in every room in this house except yours—even into Miss Scott’s room: and I have not found the semblance of one volume, and this is the only house I have been in, anywhere, that I have not met with them.’ On my replying that there were none in my room, Sir John, with an expression of having made a shrewd discovery, said, ‘Ha! is not this a strange circumstance? It goes with other reasons I have to convince me who is the real author. Sir Walter no doubt is the, “great unknown,” and it will be proved so;’ and he laughed.67 This public secrecy meant that a fair copy of Scott’s manuscript had

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to be made, so as to try to keep the identity of the author from employees of the printing-house. It is not possible to be confident as to who the copyist was in this case, but several clues point to James Ballantyne himself. He clearly had first-hand knowledge of the manuscript, since he comments on its illegibility on several occasions in the proofs. At 59.23–26, he remarks ‘I cannot read the  . here’, to which Scott responds ‘and you have not returnd the copy by which I should read it’. This, incidentally, makes it clear that the author did not have the manuscript at this point either, but, on the other hand, Ballantyne may only have had the fair copy of it. But at 229.22 at the head of Volume 4, Chapter 12, when he comments on the spelling of a word in the motto (‘This can hardly be the right line, though the correction is accurately copied’), he seems to have had both manuscript and copy before him. More substantial evidence of Ballantyne’s involvement with the manuscript can be found on f. 22v of Volume 4, where he wrote a speech marker on the manuscript itself (‘she continued, with encreasing vehemence’ 156.27–28), which was incorporated into the printed text. On f. *23v of Volume 4 (174.18), there is a further clue, in the form of a note (‘cant find a place for this’) above an addition by Scott to the main text, which Ballantyne enclosed in square brackets. He comments at length on this passage on the proofs of 4.112 (175.30–176.5): Please to look at the back of p. 23 of the  . There occurs a passage (which I have enclosed in hooks,) that I cannot find a place for. It ought to be somewhere here, but there is neither room for it nor a want of it. The present edition of The Talisman proposes a solution to the problem encountered by Ballantyne which can be seen in the emendation to 174.29. Thus it very much looks as if Ballantyne having an intimate knowledge of the manuscript and some of its difficulties is likely to have been its copyist. There is, however, some conflicting evidence, especially for the later part of the third volume. Again the proofs provide it. Gatherings M and P–T (and perhaps U and X also) were not passed to Scott for correction by James Ballantyne, but by his brother Alexander, who writes the ‘Please to read this’ at the head of each of them (except T), and makes some corrections which will be discussed later. On p. 244 (99.10), he writes ‘Philip is afterwards stated, mms: p: 72,o to have been forced by his nobles m& the Churcho to join the crusade’. This must have been written by someone familiar with the passage at 114.30–32 where Philip’s unwilling appearance at the Crusade is underlined. Alexander Ballantyne would not already have known of this later passage if he was merely filling the role of proof-reader, so he is very likely to have been copyist here, too, as he was for parts of

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The Betrothed. Scott added the phrase ‘or urged by his nobles’ to cover the point that had been raised (99.10–11). A small confirmatory clue occurs later on, when a space left on the proofs at 130.7 is filled (not by Scott) with the correct word (‘studied’) from the manuscript or copy. If the typesetter had had a difficulty with the word before him on the copy, the copyist himself presumably did not. The Proofs. Ballantyne adopted the practice of preserving the proofs of the novels, especially those that had Scott’s own corrections on them. He kept a full set of proofs of both volumes of The Talisman, together with revises of Volume 4 gatherings M, N and Q, and two pages (319–20) of U. They are bound in sequence into a single volume, along with several letters and short documents (mostly from Scott), which are of relevance to the production of the novel. The volume is now in the Beinecke Library, Yale University (call number:   266 Box 39). In both volumes of the first edition of The Talisman the running titles of the pages are simply ‘TALES OF THE CRUSADERS.’, whereas in the companion novel, this appears only on the even-numbered pages, with ‘TALE I. THE BETROTHED.’ on the page facing. In the proofs of The Talisman, in gatherings A–D of Volume 3 the odd pages are headed ‘TALE I.’ (with space left for a title), and those of E–X have ‘TALES OF THE CRUSADERS.’. Also, in gatherings A–G, at the foot of the first page appears ‘VOL. I.’, which is there to assist the printers in arranging the material correctly. This was noticed and altered by hand on G, and then gatherings H–X have ‘VOL. III.’ printed there. Subsequently, the first edition is consistent in both respects. The initial lack of a title for a novel would normally suggest that Scott had not yet chosen one (as happened with Redgauntlet), but when Cadell heard these first sheets read on 17 December he had referred to it by name (see 285 above); it follows that copy for the first four sheets had been written, transcribed and was at the printers before Scott used the name on 17 December. Several different hands can be identified on the proofs—Scott’s, of course, but also James Ballantyne’s, Alexander Ballantyne’s, and Daniel MacCorkindale’s. Before the proofs were passed to James Ballantyne and then to Scott, they were checked for technical errors by a member of the printing-house. The erroneous volume numbers mentioned above, as well as a missing gathering letter at Q of Volume 3 were noticed. Slipped and faulty letters were marked for adjustment, page numbers that had not registered or were of the wrong fount (roman instead of arabic) were also marked, as was one instance of a mis-spelled running title, and some punctuation slips (full stop for dash at 21.2) and even a few spellings (‘arrise’ at 22.17; ‘backward son’ at 31.40) corrected by these anonymous hands.

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James Ballantyne was the next to read the proofs, and went through them very thoroughly, making hundreds of corrections and comments. In the third volume he wrote on nearly half of the first 200 pages, and in the fourth on about two thirds of the pages in the whole volume. As a long-standing friend and partner of Scott, his interventions stretch from minor corrections, through genial comments and questionings about the narrative and its consistency, right up to saying that he did not like an incident or passage. Ballantyne wished to ensure that the author’s text was printed as accurately and clearly as possible, so he was quick to notice faults in punctuation, freely adding or deleting commas, or changing a full stop to an exclamation mark. He occasionally gives direct instructions to the printer, as at 228.30 where the jester’s name had been printed as ‘Hans Schwanz’, and he writes ‘See a previous sheet for the name of the jester’. He also adds words or phrases where the text appears to be lacking them (42.20 ‘was’; 195.14 ‘aroused by the bustle of what had passed’; 254.30 ‘least’) and alters verbs for reasons of concord (29.34 ‘is’ to ‘are’). Ballantyne changes fount from roman to italic (‘Thou’ 154.29, ‘him’ 198.31) or suggests that Scott should do so (185.27, 28). He is always alert for repetitions, and marks them so that Scott can tidy up the text (66.27 where ‘crusaders’ appeared before ‘camp’ and was repeated in the following line; 158.29 where ‘much forgotten much like’ appeared; 165.6 and 8 where ‘shaggy’ appeared twice; 173.3 where ‘at once’ preceded ‘by force’ and appeared again just below). Such examples can be multiplied many times over throughout the proofs. His favourite signals to Scott are ‘Incomplete’ or ‘Incorrect’, which mark places where there was a lacuna in the manuscript or something he perceived as ungrammatical. Ballantyne seems to have felt that all chapters should have mottoes, and drew attention to their absence at the beginning of Volume 3, Chapters 2 and 9 (Scott did not respond), and at Volume 4, Chapter 15 (where he did). Oddly, he did not comment on the absence of mottoes in other chapters (Volume 3, Chapters 3 and 4; Volume 4, Chapter 7). The case of the incorrectly quoted motto for Volume 4, Chapter 12 has been mentioned above, and it remained a problem on the revise. And at Volume 4, Chapter 8, where Scott had abbreviated the lines from Macbeth to —and wither’d Murder, with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin’s ravishing strides towards his design, Moves like a ghost.

Ballantyne wrote ‘I do not see why the whole of this fine quotation (hardly finer than what it precedes) should not be given. I may dumple it, I suppose’, meaning fill it out, make it round, to which Scott replied

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‘Do as ye list—I only took what seemd appropriate’, and Ballantyne duly filled out the quotation. The most interesting interventions by Ballantyne, however, are those in which he seems to take a somewhat proprietorial attitude and to question the quality of what Scott had written. He marked the opening sentence of Volume 3, Chapter 6 and wrote ‘I dislike considerably this unnecessary destroying of the illusion. There is no occasion for . . . thrusting Bottom’s head out of the lion’s skin.’ Scott replied: ‘I do not understand your objection but dumple it as you list’, but Ballantyne changed nothing. A little further on, at 55.25–26, where the text read ‘like that which was once longed for in the same country by one of its ancient monarchs’ he wrote: ‘There seems (if the printing is correct) a flattishness and obscurity about this’, which led Scott to delete two phrases and add two others. Ballantyne noticed flaws in the flow of sense, as when he changed ‘he’ to ‘the Saracen’ at 25.33 because the subject had changed, or suggested ‘unholy’ for ‘holy’ at 26.13, and made an educated guess as when he suggested that ‘Persian’ was needed at 28.26 when ‘Perian’ had been printed. He also asked many questions of the author, especially if the logic of the narrative seemed unclear to him or if there were references he did not understand. At 211.16 where the text read ‘He was besides able to suggest’, Ballantyne wrote ‘besides what?’, which led Scott to delete the word. Similarly, at 48.17, where the text read ‘The moments became gradually more and more dear . . .’, he asked ‘What moments?’, which produced the added clause ‘when . . . lover’ from the author. At 175.1 he wrote ‘Does the illustrious and sparkling name of Plantagenet in any language signify a broomplant? If so, what a singular instance of association’, to which Scott responded ‘Surely. Planta Genista is just plantagenet’. And at 47.6, when the lamps are suddenly extinguished, he asked ‘They had no stop-cocks in the days of darkness. How were they extinguished, I wonder’, to which Scott genially replied: ‘Surely very simple contrivances could manage this. But your head is got full of stopcocks’. At 57.38, where the text read ‘in face, form, attitude, and manner’, he wrote ‘Not in form; for both being gigantic, they must have been as like 〈in〉 each other, as unlike most others’. Scott responded: ‘Richd. though very strong was not gigantic in size’, but he also deleted ‘form’. Another such example of Ballantyne following the apparent logic of the text led Scott into a reply and an addition; at 249.2–3, Ballantyne wrote ‘But she has been there before, on her road to the chapel of Engaddi, and not, so far as we hear, with a larger escort—her royal defender, moreover being sick’. Scott wrote ‘Perhaps she went by a different route or perhaps she was frightend then too My lady for example is always frightend at the ford which [she] passes 20 times in a season’, and added a new beginning to the sentence (‘The former

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. . . desert’). In commenting like this, Ballantyne, in his role of the plain man reading a new text, contributed greatly to the clarity of what emerged in the first edition, but he was not always successful in his task, as at 45.39 where he queried Kenneth’s ability to see the face of his beloved in the chapel (‘But her face was veiled’ he wrote), but elicited no response from Scott. At times, however, he is quite ebullient, as at 147.29, where Berengaria was described as ‘a royal maiden’, and he wrote: Maiden! By’r lady, no. Richard’s wife w[ould] hardly sing with the spouse of Chrononho[t]onthologus, Would I were a widow as I am a wife, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary; For I’m to my sorrow, a maiden as bright As the dew that flies over the mulberry tree!

Scott replied ‘lapsus pennae’, and substituted ‘youthful bride’. Soon after (at 149.24), Ballantyne questioned the reference to the sequence of events in Berengaria’s tent (126–131), writing ‘This is not exactly what happened’ and pointing out that it was the Queen who had left Edith and not the other way around (130.8). Then at 149.31 there are a further nine lines of comment with much underlining, which culminates in ‘There is a palpable error in chronology here’. Scott replied ‘—I think this hypercritical’ to the first, and ‘this is also hypercritical’ to the second, and changed nothing. Ballantyne was, of course, correct in his observation, but perhaps not tactful in the way he drew attention to it. He had clearly got the bit between his teeth, however, for a page or two later he was still on the attack. At 152.32, he questioned why the executioner was said to be awaiting commands when he already had them, to which Scott replied ‘Not quite’ and added ‘his further’. Then Ballantyne returned to the fray at the end of the paragraph (153.10) with ‘again, he had got his directions’. Scott was clearly annoyed at this carping: ‘again No. D—n ye I’ll make it plain by an addition—You know nothing of hangman’s work—’. The addition was not forthcoming. And Ballantyne raised the matter again, slightly more temperately, at 153.39: ‘Should not a word or two be inserted to indicate that Richard had bid the rascal “begone,” to fulfil his office, not to please the Queen? It would add to the suspense.’ Scott added the passage ‘What waitst . . . burial!” ’ (153.40–42) but made no other comment. Soon after, the temperature seems to have cooled a little, as when Ballantyne marked 155.22, and wrote ‘Voluptuous is a rather ticklish word’, to which Scott replied ‘I give you your choice of carnal or concupiscent’. Here, Ballantyne seems to have taken the hint and changed nothing. And then, at 157.10, where the text read ‘he was mule enough’, Ballantyne remarked ‘Obstinacy does not grant requests. I understand; but mules would rather refuse than grant.’ Scott re-

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sponded drily, evidently aware of the application of this passage to the relationship between the two partners, ‘Obstinacy keeps its own way in spite of the commands of the superior’, but changed ‘mule’ to ‘wilful’. Nonetheless, Ballantyne continued to make sharp comments and to criticise what he took for flaws in the narrative. At 164.36, he wrote ‘I confess that I do not understand this. If the peace of the Church implied war with the Saracen, the end of the one, the truce, would be the beginning, not the end, of the other, to wit the peace of the church.’ Scott’s exasperated response (‘O L—d G—d—The peace of the church was peace among the crusaders . . .’) was followed by the addition of ‘among . . . crusade.” ’ at the end of the previous paragraph, and of ‘among crusaders’ and the alteration of ‘they’ to ‘the princes’ in the present sentence. At 174.18 Ballantyne marked ‘calling of the saracens’ and wrote ‘I do not understand (though perhaps it is very plain) what “a calling of the Saracens” means’. Scott replied ‘Did you never read or hearing [sic] of the calling of the heathen’, and added ‘the other heathen’ to the sentence. At 188.19, Ballantyne called attention to what is a recurrent underlying issue (the language in which the characters communicate) by writing ‘Did Saladin send a translation?’ and got the terse response ‘Apparently’. Such comments from Ballantyne continue frequently through the rest of the novel, mostly eliciting replies from Scott (both gruff— ‘Hypercriticall’ again at 216.36—and courteous), as well as elaborations of the text or deletions of short passages and words. Two of Ballantyne’s comments cast light on their differing standards of decorum: at 238.18, where the proofs read ‘and from such an ill-conditioned brute as thou art, one should ever look for more kicks than compliments’, Ballantyne remarked: ‘May I be pardoned for venturing to hint, that this sounds something like—as it were—a little—vulgarish? more “kicks than compliments”—mmoreo kicks than halfpence is an old schoolboy phrase I remember.’ Scott re-wrote the passage as ‘an ill-conditioned brute thou art,—But come . . .’, thus removing what Ballantyne considered vulgar. The present edition has returned to Scott’s original words, as it has when Ballantyne thought ‘pantaloons’ (252.13) ‘too modern a word’, but perhaps really felt that there was a lapse towards pantomime in the choice of the word, although he had not objected to it at 221.42. One final example worthy of attention is at 259.26 where Scott was induced to delete nearly a whole page of printed text, which led to the re-setting of the next two pages, thus explaining the existence of the revises of 319–20. Ballantyne had objected to a dispute between De Vaux and Blondel following the latter’s admission to the pavilion despite his ‘mean’ appearance: ‘Dont like this. I reverence the very name of Blondel, and could have wished his je ne scais quoi to make

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its way even through a black eunuch.’ Scott comments ‘You know the story of his turning the spit He was a mean looking man But it is quite superfluous to bring it in here’, and deletes the whole passage. A couple of the letters from Scott to Ballantyne bound with the proofs cast light on the general climate of the relationship between the two friends. One, found between the two sets of proofs of N in Volume 4 (after p. 208), is dated ‘Jedburgh. 1 May’ (to which Ballantyne has added ‘1825’; the sheets were folded into a letter and franked with that date). This deals initially with financial matters, but then turns to Ballantyne’s commentary on the novel: ‘As to criticism I am always distrustful of my opinion in opposition to that of any well judging freind yours particularly But I still doubt the prudence of mending a dull & overloaded fire by a shovelfull of wet small coal . . . It is impossible to restore the gloss of new description to tilt and tournament’. Ballantyne seems to have said or implied that the present novel was not up to the standard of some of its predecessors, and Scott goes on to draw an analogy with an old man who wonders that he no longer enjoys a piece of music as he did before, or who blames the cook for the failure of his palate to relish the ‘toujours perdrix’. ‘One thing is certain that I am so far from dreading that I do most solemnly reverence any criticism founded on a superior knowlege of the subject treated of to that which I possess . . . if my tale be false I would in every case desire my manners to be true and it is therefore I fear these Asiatics which you keep routing for—they are a sort of folks of whom I know nothing but from books & with whom many are now acquainted by actually [sic] observation.’ Towards the end, Scott writes: ‘I have said my Say as you say But I wish you not to end yours for though I am always sorry when I find myself astray— yet—it is as well to know one is out of the way though it be only to make an effort in another direction’. It seems that the torrent of criticism expressed by Ballantyne in his examination of the proofs had exposed something of Scott’s vulnerability, but that he bravely fought back. Another (undated) letter found at the very beginning of Volume 3 expresses similar feelings: ‘I am always obliged with your feelings and most willing to conform But when you desire 〈?〉 me to progress and to be interesting I can only say you are cudgelling a dull ass & that I am as interesting as I am It is the indescribible “Likes me not” for which I can only be very sorry’. Ballantyne expressed his dislike of a passage on the proofs three times, at 55.25 (see 299 above), at 65.17 where the text had referred allusively to Dr Johnson (Ballantyne objected to something ‘so very modern’, and Scott deleted the offending sentence), and at 259.26 (see 301 above). This letter may have been a response to either of the first two comments, which would explain why it was bound into Volume 3. Scott continued in the same

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letter: ‘I only mention this because you might think I was either not attending to your criticism or silly enough to be huffd at what I always consider as most kind & important. This is not the case but though I can alter incidents and soften expressions and modify characters I cannot quite answer the spur.’ These two letters go some way towards softening the impression of what may have appeared to be a tetchy relationship. Scott recognised that Ballantyne was, above all, trying to be helpful even if he sometimes came over as nit-picking and carping. The dialogue between the two friends was an essential part of the construction of the final version of the novel, and Scott accepted its contribution to his own creative process, even if he also at times felt irritation at Ballantyne’s continual and ‘hypercritical’ close reading of his text. As indicated above (296–97), several gatherings of the proofs of Volume 3 seem to have been overseen, at least in part, by Alexander Ballantyne, rather than by James. There is some overlap between them, however, since M, for instance, is definitely not introduced by James, and yet he does make an extensive (and civil) comment on 75.7. There are one or two other minor marks and corrections in this gathering, but they cannot be attributed to an identifiable hand. Since there are so few marks, even from Scott himself, on M, the surviving copy may itself be a revise. N and O, however, are headed in James’s hand, and he makes some comments on N (the lack of a motto for Chapter 9, for instance, and several instances of ‘Incomplete’ and ‘Incorrect’) and some references to the manuscript, as well as some corrections, so this sheet may be the original proof. Then O, once again, has relatively few corrections, but they are spread evenly throughout and include some detailed comments, so this sheet too is probably an original. Gatherings P–S are all headed in Alexander’s hand, but have relatively fewer comments and corrections than the rest of the novel. The proof-reader sticks close to his task, and Scott makes alterations as he sees fit, without prompting. Most of the pages are only marked by Scott himself. There are a handful of comments, including the one on the reasons for Philip’s participation in the Crusade mentioned above (296), and one pointing out that the Marquis speaks at 110.10 without having entered the tent (Scott added the final clause of the paragraph to solve this problem), but in these gatherings, there is nothing of the scale and penetration of James’s interventions. Such licence was only granted to the elder brother. Gatherings U and V were subject to mixed supervision; the headings may be by James, but are not certainly so. Apart from those by Scott, there are a few corrections in a hand which may be Alexander’s with some of James’s, and there is only one comment by James (at 131.19), in which he pointed out that the then text (‘bowed low

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and withdrew’) was inconsistent with 131.26. This prompted Scott to change the text to ‘seemed about to withdraw’ in order to reconcile the two actions, as well as leading on to the further criticism at 149.24 and 31 already discussed. There is also a curious set of emendations to the name of Berengaria in these closing pages (126.30, 128.8, 129.15, 129.36) which had been transcribed and printed correctly, but were altered to ‘Berengarine’ in proof, but altered back again by Scott. Whoever made the first set of alterations, be it James or Alexander, both of whom seem to have been involved as copyists of the novel and would therefore know the correct spelling, seems to have suffered an odd lapse of memory. All in all, there is much less of James in the second half of Volume 3. Is this a consequence of the robust exchanges earlier in the volume and the sentiments in the letter from Scott that James preserved, or was James at work on something else, or even perhaps unwell? It is not possible to say for certain, but, for whatever reason, Alexander seems to have supervised this part of the novel. In Volume 4, another employee of the printing-house initials the revises of N and Q that have been preserved, before they were passed to Scott. This was probably Daniel MacCorkindale (‘MC’). He may have been responsible for the re-setting of the type after the correction of the first proof, and does not otherwise write on the proof (but James Ballantyne also saw this set, as he makes a lengthy comment on a passage in Q that had not caught his eye on the first set). The revise of 4.320 has a final inscription from Alexander, who marked 260.11 and wrote: ‘This page was sent to the author; but as he did not return it & the work was in a hurry for press, my brother filled up the blank with “fear”.’ In this instance, the copy of the manuscript must have been defective and no-one consulted the manuscript itself, which clearly reads ‘fan’. Thus a number of pairs of eyes scrutinised the proofs before they were passed to Scott, each trying to generate a text that was correct both in appearance and sense. James Ballantyne went further; his role was to polish and improve so that the new novel was both worthy of Scott and of its illustrious predecessors in the Waverley series. Scott was next to see the proofs which he used for correction, revision and amplification. He made alterations and corrections on all but 10% of the pages of the proofs. He seems to have read them thoroughly with an alert and critical eye. Certainly he responded to Ballantyne’s stream of comments, but he also himself intervened on a far greater number of pages that had passed under Ballantyne’s eye without comment. To take but one early set of examples, he deleted ‘had’ before ‘provoked’ in 3.18, changed ‘dreadful’ to ‘fearful’ in 3.21, ‘a sterile’ to ‘an arid’ and ‘waste’ to ‘wilderness’ in 3.22, and deleted ‘once’ before

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‘fair’ also in 3.22. This sort of attention to detail is manifest throughout Scott’s proof-corrections. He was alert to all of the same things that had prompted the other proof-readers, as when he removed potential alliteration (by changing ‘paths’ to ‘dells’ at 34.37), noticed failings in the type-setting (when the line-break had produced ‘irreconci-lable’ at 35.37), or corrected the spelling of ‘penitential’ (40.5). Sometimes, a tiny improvement is made and is the only change on the whole page (‘or’ for ‘and’ at 117.26). He also continued to divide his text more lucidly by adding new paragraphs, as at 5.32 and a dozen other places. Scott was always alert to ways in which he could clarify what he had written. At 14.4, he changed ‘Arabs’ to ‘Eastern tribe’, having remembered that his Saracen was not an Arab but a Kurd, and at 56.40 changed ‘dominions’ to ‘domains’, thus giving Thom of the Gills possessions suitable to his status. He sometimes added a single word of clarification (‘Moorish’ at 71.14; ‘unbaptized’ at 95.26; ‘slowly’ at 189.17). He often realised that some of his original pronouns would be better and sharper as nouns (‘the poor Scottish soldier’ for ‘he’ at 47.41; ‘Edith and himself ’ for ‘them’ at 118.33; ‘The little phalanx’ for ‘They’ at 251.26). At 180.24, he gave Conrade an oath (‘Mahound’ instead of ‘Mahommed’) both more suitable to him, coming as it does from the dramatic tradition, and less offensive to others. He also generally remembered what he had written in the manuscript, and was able to correct from ‘five’ to ‘four’ at 44.31, to adjust the more difficult spellings, such as ‘tolpack’ to ‘tolpach’ at 71.17, and ‘Ananiah’ to ‘Araunah’ at 167.43, and to provide the missing ‘divan’ at 159.20. That Scott was still composing, not just tidying up, can be seen on many occasions. At 54.13–18, he added the final two sentences of the chapter, and at 114.8–9 he added the sentence about Salisbury drawing near, having first written a version of the addition on the previous page (‘〈The approach of Salisbury and the English men at arms 〈?〉 and yeomanry increased 〈?〉 this pacific disposition for the former began to brandish Bills & partizans & the latter to hand their bows〉’). At 40.43 he replaced a clumsy sentence (‘“I am so far honoured with the king’s commands,” answered the Knight, upon whom the question came so suddenly, that he had not time to reflect whether evasion might not be desirable.’) with the much more straightforward one at 40.43–41.2. At 142.42–143.4 he seems to have wished to refer once again to the purported deception of Richard by William the Lion, and added the whole passage ‘I should have known . . . De Vaux’. Even in the final run-in to the finish, he was adding whole sentences in order to elaborate the text as at 268.14 and 16 (‘The leech . . . And farther’ and ‘What saith . . . look upon it?’). And earlier, he seems to have realised that he had omitted to provide a reason for

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the presence of ‘The Bloody Vest’ in the narrative at all, and so added the sentence in which Richard claims to have heard it before (240.29–32). In none of the above examples did Ballantyne provide the spur to composition, but Scott relived his text as he read it, polishing, elaborating, explaining and improving. From Proofs to Print. Scott’s corrections were not the last changes to his text before publication. There is a scattering of post-proof changes that appeared in the first edition. Ballantyne almost certainly produced a fair copy of the corrected proofs for the printers to work from (there is no sign of inky fingers on the surviving proofs), and it is likely that he continued altering punctuation and some of the expression as he went. Most of these late changes are very minor, such as at 4.19 where ‘also’ was removed before ‘chosen’, 12.27 where commas round ‘in some measure’ were removed, or the opening clause of the sentence at 26.12–13 (now restored) was re-written as ‘Of this place I have been long warned to beware by wise and holy men’. At 137.2 and 4 ‘proposals’ and ‘offers’ were exchanged between proof and first edition for no evident reason; on the other hand, at 88.25 ‘exhibited’ replaced ‘assumed’, which had been used two lines above. At 31.40–41 a clause (‘who, however . . . to one side.’) was added at the end of a sentence. Some of these alterations have been accepted by the present edition, but many of them have been excluded on the grounds that they do not have authorial support. 3.    An account of the later editions of Tales of the Crusaders has been given in the Essay on the Text of The Betrothed, but as The Talisman appears in the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels as a separate volume that account is repeated here. There was no ‘second edition’ of Tales of the Crusaders, but they appeared in the three editions of Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley (a collection which consisted of St Ronan’s Well, Redgauntlet, Tales of the Crusaders, and Woodstock), as well as in the Magnum Opus. When Scott became insolvent in January 1826, he handed over all his property to trustees (with the exception of Abbotsford and the surrounding estate which was entailed on his elder son Walter), and promised to commit all his literary earnings to repaying the creditors. The minutes of Scott’s trustees for 8 June 1826 record that they considered an offer from Robert Cadell to publish Saint Ronan’s Well, Redgauntlet, Tales of the Crusaders and Woodstock in the collected series (the previous novels had all been republished in groups, each of these collected editions appearing in octavo, duodecimo and 18mo formats). Cadell offered to print 1500 copies of each, he ‘paying the Trustees a sum of £1500. for the privilege, by two equal instalments at four

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and six months, from the completion of the last edition’,68 and with his meeting all the costs. The trustees decided to see if either of the big London publishers, Longmans or Murrays, was prepared to offer. One of the problems, although the minutes do not record this, must have been the fact that Cadell was an undischarged bankrupt, who could not legally continue to trade. However, the minutes of a meeting of 13 July 1826 record: From a state which had been prepared by Mr. Ballantyne of the probable expence and proceeds of the proposed three editions of the four last Novels, each edition consisting of 1500 Copies, it appeared that there would be a clear profit to the Trustees, supposing all the impressions sold, of £5,064. 4. 7, while Mr. Cadell’s offer for the right of publishing these three editions to the same extent was only £1,500.69 As the trustees had kept James Ballantyne and Co. as a running concern, they decided to undertake the preparation and manufacture of the books themselves, but, on Scott’s suggestion, to limit the impressions of each edition to 1000. The minutes record that in March John Gibson, secretary to Scott’s trustees, wrote letters soliciting offers from publishers for the right to sell these editions to the retail trade,70 and on 6 April 1827 Gibson accepted Cadell’s offer: ‘On the part of the trustees of Sir Walter Scott, I hereby accept of the offer for the continued series of the four last Waverley Novels . . . contained in your letter of the 30th March last’, the offer being for £4000.71 It was further agreed that two-thirds of the imprint of each edition would go to Longmans, which was confirmed by their acceptance on 9 April.72 The collection was entitled Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley: the octavo edition appeared in seven volumes in Edinburgh on 17 May 1827, the duodecimo in nine on 28 July, and the 18mo in seven on 27 October, although the dating of the engravings suggests that it may in fact have appeared in 1828.73 A second edition of the 18mo appeared in 1828, but nothing is known of the business arrangements for it. The textual relationship of the different editions to each other can be seen in the following stemma: First Edition (1825) o bbb8vo Tales and Romances (1827)ddd o o 12mo Tales and Romances (1827) o o o 18mo Tales and Romances (1827) o o o 18mo Tales and Romances (1828) [Interleaved Set] o Magnum (1832)

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The octavo Tales and Romances (1827). The Talisman occupies much of Volume 5, and the whole of Volume 6. It follows the text of the first edition very closely, but it attends to some of its peculiarities. For instance in Chapter 5 ‘most deep’ (50.18) becomes ‘deepest’, and ‘more near’ (52.3) becomes ‘nearer’. The simple ‘Kenneth’ (50.32) is changed to ‘Sir Kenneth’ in accordance with the tendency to eliminate the familiar mode of address which is discussed below (318). Spelling is attended to: Scott’s ‘mishapen’ (51.9), an acceptable form in Shakespeare, becomes ‘misshapen’, a form followed in this present edition. So too is repetition: the second of two examples of ‘brilliancy’ (51.33) within three lines is changed to ‘lustre’, another emendation adopted here. But there is also error, as when the ‘earthy spirits’ of 51.13 (the narrative is talking of ‘gnomes’) are turned into ‘earthly spirits’. In Chapter 22 (using the continuous numeration) the same features obtain. The text follows the first edition for page after page almost without alteration, but it removes a repetition when ‘rapid’ (207.5) which returns six lines later is replaced by ‘swift’. But this Chapter perpetrates the worst error in the whole edition when it omits four lines of the first edition, from ‘their turbulent empire’ to ‘passion to reassume’ (205.17–19) because of an eye-slip: ‘passions to reassume’ is followed by ‘passion to reassume’ four lines below. And it is guilty of two other bits of carelessness, both of which involve minor but significant textual degradation: ‘abase’ (209.8) becomes ‘abuse’, a simple misreading, and ‘hurried’ (210.6) is changed to ‘carried’, a case of following the sense rather than the letter. The duodecimo Tales and Romances (1827). The Talisman in the duodecimo edition occupies part of Volume 6 and all of Volume 7 of Tales and Romances. It was set from the octavo (it does not restore the lost four lines), but introduces its own variants such as the rather literal change from ‘in utter darkness’ (52.41) to ‘again in darkness’, arguing, no doubt, that Kenneth could not have seen anything had he been in ‘utter darkness’; it changes ‘elritch’ (52.11) to ‘eldritch’ and corrects the octavo’s ‘abuse’ (209.8) which once again becomes ‘abase’. The 18mo Tales and Romances (1827 and 1828). The Talisman occupies the second part of Volume 5 and the first part of Volume 6. The 1827 edition was, most unusually, set from duodecimo, for it follows nearly every change introduced there, and adds its own. The text has been treated intelligently: for example whereas the first edition reads: it was a female form, much resembling that of the former, in shape and proportions, which slowly emerged from the floor. Her

   309 dress was also of red samite, fantastically cut and frounced, as if she had been dressed for some exhibition of mimics or jugglers. (51.23–27) the 18mo follows the octavo and duodecimo in the mistaken ‘flounced’ for ‘frounced’, but it sensibly (although without authority) changes ‘proportions’ to the singular to match ‘shape’, and gets rid of the repeated ‘dress/ed’ by substituting ‘attire’ for ‘dress’. It recognises that ‘thee’ is required in place of ‘one’ in the phrase ‘given one as his guest’ (203.8). It regularises the forms of certain names. But its intelligence is limited, for it also generates mistakes: the rehabilitation of Sir Kenneth requires that he confront his own position calmly and the Hakim introduces this state by giving some drug as a result of which Kenneth felt ‘enabled’ (210.1) to consider his identity and condition ‘without alarm’, but the 18mo reads ‘unable’. And it also makes mistakes: ‘seemed’ (51.37) is substituted for ‘appeared’, thereby creating a repetition which the octavo had removed; ‘shriller’ (53.27) becomes ‘sharper’. The 1828 edition of the 18mo was set from its 18mo predecessor, for it includes all the readings which are particular to the 1827 18mo. However, the volume division is not the same: for instance Chapter 5 is in Volume 5 in both editions, but begins on p. 207 in 1827 and 149 in 1828. Page divisions too are different. These are the biggest differences between the two; 1828 shows small variations in punctuation but it follows 1827 very closely indeed. The Interleaved Copy and the Magnum. The full story of the making of the Magnum Opus is to be found in Jane Millgate’s Scott’s Last Edition: a Study in Publishing History.74 In brief, when on 10 March 1823 Scott gave the manuscripts of the novels to date to Archibald Constable,75 Constable in his letter of thanks suggested that Scott should annotate his own fiction—‘in my opinion it is the Author only who could do anything at all acceptable in the way of genuine illustration’.76 Scott demurred.77 The idea was resurrected in 1825; in his Journal entry for 19 December Scott noted Constable’s plan for a collected edition,78 and on 19 January 1826 he recorded ‘Even yesterday I went about making notes on Waverley according to Constable’s plan’.79 But work was interrupted by the crash. Constable had purchased the copyright of all the novels from Waverley to Quentin Durward, but at the time of the crash £7800 of the purchase money was still outstanding. Who owned the copyrights was one of the matters referred to Lord Newton. The missives for the sale of the first copyrights, in February 1819, had stipulated that ownership remained with Scott until the full price had been paid, but this clause had not appeared when Scott sold further copyrights in 1821 and 1823,80 and because of this Lord Newton determined that

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the copyrights belonged to Archibald Constable and Co. Constable’s trustees moved rapidly towards a sale, and in an auction on 19 December 1827 they were bought by Scott’s trustees conjointly with Robert Cadell, paying £8500. They were thus able to add the copyrights of the novels of the first fifteen novels to the four they still owned, and the new edition could therefore proceed. Preparations continued right through 1828, and the first volume of the Magnum Opus was published on 1 June 1829; 48 volumes appeared, one a month, until 3 May 1833. Scott does not say much about preparing Tales of the Crusaders for the Magnum. There is only one relevant entry in his Journal: on 21 February 1831 he says that the next day he is going to send off the second volume of material for the Magnum Redgauntlet, and that the ‘Tales of the Crusades come next’.81 On 24 February he told Cadell ‘I am getting ready the first volume of Crusaders’;82 on 29 March he wrote: ‘I send you the next volume of Magnum being the 1st of the Crusades’.83 Scott’s materials for the Magnum version of The Talisman are to be found in  23030 and 23031 in the National Library of Scotland. They consist of the octavo volumes from Tales and Romances interleaved so that Scott could revise the text and provide notes. There is a short Introduction on a ‘paper apart’; he made around 230 textual corrections, and wrote ten notes, only two of which are of a length which requires them to appear at the end of the chapter. There is no evidence about when Scott completed work on The Talisman, but it was after 29 March when he finished the first volume of the Crusaders, and probably before 17 April 1831 when he had a stroke which affected his handwriting. The corrections for The Talisman do not show signs of distress. Scott’s corrections are spread right through the novel: there is one chapter where there is not a single alteration, but on the whole there is no diminution in his attention as he proceeds. Very few of his changes involve punctuation: most are ‘substantive’. Quite a number are corrections which show a keen eye for the details of the text: for instance he tried to convert the wrong ‘Nectabanus’ into ‘Nectanabus’; the intermediaries ignored him. There is a tendency to expand pronouns into nouns: when Richard tells Edith ‘I dare be sworn not a feather of you will remain behind’ (246.18–19) and so miss the tournament Scott indicates that ‘you’ should become ‘her [Berengaria’s] companions & attendants’; and ‘his music’ (248.19) becomes ‘the Norman Minstrel’s music’. He adds a large number of speech markers. Some of the changes are merely fiddly, as when ‘yet’ (254.40) is changed to ‘though’, or when a few lines later what is implicit is made obvious as Scott adds ‘to the blow’ to ‘no sword on earth, were it the Excalibar of King Arthur, can cut that which opposes no steady

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resistance’ (255.2–4). Yet, when Saladin’s arm is described two lines later as ‘long and spare’ (255.6), an enhancement can be seen in Scott’s change of ‘long’ to ‘thin’. He adds a motto to Chapter 20, but ignores the other two chapters that lack them. All Scott’s changes are relatively small; none alters the story. Cadell’s diary entries say that he ‘revised part of the Crusaders’, or ‘revised part of Crusaders’, on 3, 9, 11 and 21 May.84 We do not know what he meant by ‘revised’, but it probably indicates that he edited Scott’s textual revisions, correcting small mistakes, normalising spelling and punctuation, and going through the existing text imposing consistency. The collation of the Magnum text of The Talisman against the octavo edition of Tales and Romances shows a very high level of intrusion. For example, ‘seemed chosen on purpose, as most’ (4.19) was replaced by ‘were’; ‘flowed’ (4.24) by ‘he had’; ‘have been’ (4.42) by ‘be’; ‘crusaders’ (5.2) by ‘Crusaders’; ‘were come’ (5.4) by ‘had come’; ‘all kinds’ (5.25) by ‘every kind’. In other words there are six verbal changes within one page of the present text. On 20 May Cadell reported to Scott that ‘the Printer had got the Crusaders from me’.85 On 24 May he says in his diary that he was ‘busy all forenoon with part of the Talisman’.86 On 12 July he ‘revised Introduction to Talisman’, and on 16 July ‘Introduction to Crusades (Talisman)’.87 The Talisman appeared as Volume 38 of the Magnum Opus, and was published on 1 July 1832. 4.    As explained in the headnote to the Emendation List, a specific copy of the first edition of the novel has been used as the base-text for the present edition. This base-text has been compared with about thirty other copies of the first edition, and it is clear that while copies of the first edition are not absolutely identical, the differences are limited to minor matters, such as the occasional inadequate registration of letters and punctuation marks. Note has been taken of material supplied by bibliographers such as William B. Todd and Anne Bowden. More importantly it has been compared in detail with the manuscript itself, the surviving proofs, and the editions published in Scott’s lifetime. This has both established the history of the text, and shown up in huge detail where the printed text has diverged from what Scott wrote in manuscript and proofs, as well as many problems which the printed texts attempt to solve. Emendations have been derived from all these sources as well as Scott’s own revisions and notes in the Interleaved Set of the Waverley Novels. Emendations from Manuscript and Proofs. This edition makes rather more than 1700 emendations to the first-edition text, of which the great majority derive from Scott himself, either directly from the

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manuscript (about 1450), or from corrections by Scott on the proofs that were not incorporated into the first edition (more than 70), or from the printed proofs. The printed proofs often accurately reproduced the manuscript, and yet some readings were inexplicably changed before the first edition appeared. A few mistakes persisted in all later editions, and these have been emended on editorial authority. An examination of the Emendation List will immediately show that, while each emendation may appear to be quite minor, each is significant. Among the apparently trivial are the spellings of small words, especially verbs. Scott wrote most of the commonest verbs as he pronounced them (as was normal in written English of the time), so that ‘wouldst’ (11.11, etc.), ‘couldst’ (17.12, etc.), ‘shouldst’ (17.33, etc.), and ‘seest’ (34.3, etc.) appeared in that form in the manuscript, but were often presented in the first edition in forms with an apostrophe (would’st, could’st, should’st, see’st) which, while strictly correct (since there is a missing letter), slightly misrepresent what Scott wrote. A similar set of spellings are of those verbs where the first edition expanded Scott’s form into a disyllabic word (‘seemest’ 17.32, ‘sayest’ 23.11, ‘speakest’ 26.38, ‘mayest’ 68.19), which also misrepresents what Scott wrote (and may indeed have ‘heard’ as he wrote). In contrast, Scott usually wrote ‘doest’ (11.12, etc.) which is disyllabic, but the first edition printed this as ‘dost’. These spellings, too, have been returned to the manuscript form where the evidence exists. Another class of verb-forms that were sometimes misrepresented in the first edition are some past tenses which Scott wrote as ‘dipd’ (20.35), ‘dropd’ (41.41), or ‘stepd’ (47.15). He expected them to be expanded in print, and they appeared in the first edition as ‘dipt’, ‘dropt’, or ‘stept’, and so on, but these forms are out of line with the more normal expansion of other past-tense verbs in the text, which have ‘ed’. Another apparently minor set of emendations based on the manuscript are the dashes used by Scott to provide a rhetorical shaping of speech. At 16.36 the dash (besides being what Scott wrote) gives a freer sense of the movement of speech than the staid semi-colon provided by the intermediaries. Similarly, the whole speech at 21.32–37 moves with great vigour with dashes, but was inhibited with other stops. Many further emendations of this kind have been made throughout the novel. All these small changes help to return the overall texture of the narrative back to Scott’s original formulation of it, but there are many emendations that affect the local detail. For instance, the copyists of the novel often ‘saw’ a similar word to the one that Scott had actually written, as at 7.21 where the manuscript’s ‘elusory’ became ‘illusory’, or 28.23 where ‘monsters’ was copied as ‘ministers’, or 63.8 where

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‘emprize’ became ‘enterprize’, or 74.23 where ‘courage’ became ‘carriage’, or 101.42 where ‘strangely’ became ‘strongly’, or 211.4 where ‘coold’ was read as ‘cold’. Some of these mistakes may well derive from Scott’s less than transparent handwriting. He did not, for instance, always distinguish the various vowels clearly from one another and the interpretation of the consonants, too, can be influenced by the word that the reader is expecting. In this way, ‘further’ can easily be read as ‘farther’ (20.28, 44.14, 271.33), and ‘frame’ and ‘form’ get confused (19.43, 25.21, 169.36). Other similar confusions are ‘discover’ and ‘discern’ (31.12, 49.38, etc.), ‘intercept’ and ‘interrupt’ (121.1, 150.5), and ‘counsel’ and ‘council’ (67.38, 80.12), although in this case Scott may not always have been distinguishing the meaning of the two words in his own mind. Final ‘s’ often escaped the copyist; there are several examples of ‘forward’ where Scott had ‘forwards’ (119.32, 165.4, etc.), and ‘Saracens’ (96.38), ‘hands’ (150.31), and ‘checks’ (270.35) all lost an ‘s’ in the first edition. There are also a number of emendations rectifying the copyist’s slightly inaccurate transcription. For instance, there are the slightly archaic forms ‘burthened’ (77.38) and ‘murtherer’ (275.29) which appeared in modernised forms in the first edition, and there are a number of words that do not seem to have been so much misread by the copyist as consciously altered (24.28 ‘convince’ for ‘amuse’; 47.28 ‘animate’ for ‘reward’; 88.34 ‘security’ for ‘recovery’; 146.21 ‘stout’ for ‘good’). At times, one can detect the copyist re-phrasing what was before him, as at 210.35 where ‘a pavilion of silk’ became ‘a silken pavilion’. Furthermore, Scott’s use of some unfamiliar Scottish words may have confused the copyist on occasion (86.15 ‘frist’; 191.37 ‘birld’; 195.32 ‘drumble’), and his sense was at times misunderstood. The best example of this is at 267.11 where ‘swoond’ is clear enough in the manuscript, but the copyist was not attending and may have assumed that Conrade would recover from his fall, and so wrote ‘revived’, which has the same number of strokes as the word Scott actually wrote, although its meaning rather runs counter to the remainder of the plot. Even Scott did not notice this on the proofs. Another example, which combines an error by Scott with an overeagerness in the copyist, is at 223.12, where Scott wrote ‘call’ (for ‘calld’, but with no hint of a capital letter) and the copyist assumed that Conrade’s title would be needed and so wrote ‘Earl’. An interesting instance of where the intermediaries did not interpret Scott’s instructions in the manuscript correctly can be examined in the emendations to 181.19–23. Scott had indicated changes of speaker and of paragraph, but the first edition printed the whole passage as a single paragraph in the mouth of the Templar. In the present edition, the conversation is printed as Scott instructed, and

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so comes to an intelligible conclusion. All the above involve a series of returns to the actual individual words that Scott had written in the manuscript, but there are some other larger-scale changes from the text of the first edition which should be signalled. A footnote at 80.36 has been omitted because it was not written by Scott; Ballantyne questioned what the sentence meant, and Scott wrote that he did not think that explanation was called for, but Ballantyne seems to have added the footnote. In contrast, a passage that appeared both in manuscript and in proof (121.31–34) has been restored to the text, because its removal postproof has no authorial support. Another case is at 175.41, where an attempt has been made to unravel a passage that was not clear in the manuscript and not clarified by the intermediaries. This present edition has regularised a number of capitalisations inconsistently treated by Scott. For instance, ‘Prophet’, when it refers to Mahommed, was capitalised eight times in the manuscript, to which the first edition added a further twenty examples, and this edition has added the remaining dozen (Emendation List, 9.27, etc.). On the other hand, when the word refers to a Christian prophet, neither Scott nor the first edition used a capital, and neither does the present text. Similarly, ‘Church’ (when it refers to the Catholic Church or the Church Militant) was more often capitalised in the manuscript than not, and the first edition added several more. Strangely, it also removed capitals from a handful of instances when Scott had used them, which this edition has restored, as well as emending in three cases where neither manuscript nor first edition had a capital (Emendation List, 44.20, etc.). ‘Council’ also presents similar issues, with Scott being fairly consistent when one of the Church or royal councils was referred to, the intermediaries usually following his lead and adding more capitals, but sometimes removing a capital that Scott had asked for (Emendation List 40.43, etc.). ‘Order’ is another word that has been given a capital in line with Scott’s practice in the manuscript (Emendation List 98.14, 98.23, etc.). The effect is to distinguish names and titles whether from the East or the West as Scott was proposing, but not systematically achieving in the manuscript. In the manuscript Scott used several different versions of ‘lingua franca’, both with and without capitals, once with only ‘Lingua’ capitalised, and once in italics. The proofs used five different combinations, and the first edition three. In the present edition, ‘lingua franca’ has been adopted throughout, and editorial emendations have been listed where needed (39.27, 93.37, 134.4, 189.11, 197.39). Secondly, in the manuscript ‘anchoret’ was Scott’s preferred spelling, but the first edition adopted ‘anchorite’ (which Scott had only used once in the manuscript). In consequence, the present edition has followed Scott, with emendations in the List (19.7, etc.).

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Emendations from Octavo, Interleaved Set and Magnum. A couple of dozen emendations have been adopted from the octavo edition of Tales and Romances, of which more than half concern small adjustments in punctuation, half-a-dozen involve changes in spelling, one is a change from ‘Alan’ to ‘Kenneth’, and the remainder (51.33, 117.12, 215.10, 274.34) adopt substitute words or phrases. None has authorial sanction, since Scott is not known to have been involved in the production of the octavo, but most of them would have been proposed by a judicious editor, even without the prompting of Tales and Romances. Four emendations from the Interleaved Set have been adopted in this edition, which all involve the substitution of one word for another (23.4, 142.27, 257.1, 277.37). Since these are all in Scott’s hand, they are non-controversial. A further ten emendations follow the Magnum text, of which three adjust punctuation (78.2, 145.4, 268.16), two correct spellings (76.4, 243.17), two substitute another word (127.29, 184.6), one adds a speech marker suggested by Scott in the Interleaved Set (181.19), one changes from Alan to Kenneth again (33.34), and one changes a name for necessary historical reasons (64.30). Editorial Emendations. Sixty emendations which were not prompted by contemporary evidence have been made. This may seem a large number, but exactly half of them relate to the capitalisation of Church, Council, Prophet, and Order, the reasons for which have already been explained above. A further dozen include the standardisation of ‘anchoret’ and ‘lingua franca’, which has also already been dealt with, along with a single example of ‘dervise’ (256.6) which has been made to fall in line with the spelling of that word elsewhere in the novel; and twice the spelling of ‘Long-Sword’ has been adjusted. Of the remaining sixteen, many deal with small points of punctuation or euphony. Word order has been changed in two cases (177.26, 250.39), and in another two (156.9, 170.21) word-division has been slightly adjusted in order to make more clear what Scott intended. There remain but four substantial emendations, all of which correct factual matters that had slipped past the intermediaries in the first edition (and indeed subsequent editors). At 137.43 the quotation from Mills’s History of the Crusades has been given its correct page number. At 218.2, Medina, where Mohammed died and is buried, has been substituted for Mecca. At 268.41, Long-Sword has had his first name corrected. And, finally, at 90.35, an editorial emendation substitutes ‘baculus’ for ‘abacus’, a technical word that Scott seems to have got wrong from the outset, but unfortunately none of his assistants ventured to question the great author’s knowledge. In spite of all these changes there are areas of the novel which the editorial policies and practices of the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels cannot emend, even although it is apparent that something

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is amiss. Ballantyne’s criticisms of the inaccuracy of some of Scott’s cross-references within his text (especially those that refer to events and actions at the end of Volume 3) have already been examined (see 300 above). When Scott chose not to alter his text, as in this instance, there is nothing that a modern editor can do to help maintain the coherence of the narrative. There are at least two other places unnoted by Ballantyne where the reader likewise can begin to feel that the ground beneath his feet is uncertain. In one of these, at 214.25–39, the referent in the conversation between Ilderim and Kenneth seems to begin as Berengaria, but to end as Edith. Even if Ilderim had been referring all along to Edith, as 214.3–8 might imply, Kenneth does not take that meaning at 214.9 nor in his outburst at 214.25, and neither the narrator nor Ilderim disabuses him. Besides, Ilderim’s ‘royalty of England’ (214.20) also seems to refer to Berengaria. It may be that Scott had it in mind to let the two women, one with ‘tresses of dishevelled gold’ (214.22), the other with ‘dark tresses’ (214.33), be confused in Kenneth’s head, and for him to respond emotionally on behalf of one of them while unconsciously thinking of the other, but, if so, he has confused the reader too. Or was Scott himself unconsciously conflating them? An editor cannot intervene. Another and more complex example relates to Sir Thomas Multon and Neville. At 56.34–41, Sir Thomas is given several different appellations, not all of which continue to be used throughout the novel. He is also explicitly related to Cumberland (56.34), and later, at 146.26–30, this is reinforced in his account of his son learning to ride on his galloway-nag, which gives rise to the avuncular relationship that Scott develops between Sir Thomas and the isolated Scottish knight. Neville (or Sir Henry Neville) does not appear in the novel until the fourth volume, and seems to have been invented in order for there to be someone to conduct the Nubian to and from Richard’s presence. This could not be done by Sir Thomas (the only other courtier included in the novel), because of the sympathy that had developed between him and Kenneth; and yet Scott sometimes seems to be conflating Thomas and Neville, as at 198.36 where Neville is credited with no more than ‘Westmorland wit’ (De Vaux is regularly presented as slow or mulish), and again, by the end of the chapter, ‘the baron’ (a customary appellation of De Vaux, not Neville) is painstakingly working out whether the Nubian can understand what is said in his presence. Since Neville is elsewhere given no distinguishing characteristics, this mental attribute reminds the reader of De Vaux and his ponderous but kindly mind. Here, too, the editor cannot unravel the knots although the reader may do. Proper Names. Scott was usually (as one would expect) consistent in the use of names for his characters, although one major change

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in the course of composition, from ‘Alan’ to ‘Kenneth’, has already been mentioned (see 315 above). However, he could be inconsistent, especially in the more exotic names. On the whole, the first edition solved most of the issues fairly efficiently, but it, too, was not always consistent. This edition has had to examine a number of names, with a view to selecting the form that most closely reflects Scott’s wishes as expressed in the manuscript and his proof corrections. The names listed at the head of the Emendation List will be briefly examined here. Adonbec. ‘Adonbec’ appeared in the manuscript alongside ‘Adonbeck’, ‘Adonbic’ and ‘Adonebec’, and was the preferred form in the proofs and first edition (apart from two instances of Adonbeck, at 206.43 and 273.30). There were no emendations of the name on the proofs. Consequently, ‘Adonbec’ has been adopted. Ascalon. ‘Ascalon’ has been given the form most commonly used in the manuscript, as against ‘Askalon’. Coeur de Lion. This name was consistently so-spelled in the manuscript but was printed with a digraph in the first edition. Scott’s manuscript spelling has been preferred here, since he does use the digraph in other words. Florice. ‘Florice’ was the spelling in two occurrences in the manuscript and the third was doubtfully ‘c’ or ‘s’, so the majority spelling has been adopted. Kurdistan, Kurdman, and Kurd. These were spelled nine times with K in the manuscript, but three times with C. Here, too, the commonest form has been adopted. Mahommed and Mahommedan. These appeared in various guises in the manuscript, with the ‘a’ and ‘o’ reversed, with both double and single ‘m’, and sometimes with ‘t’ for ‘d’. They were mostly standardised in the first edition on the forms given above, and it has been decided to complete the process in this edition. Melec Ric. This was the spelling adopted throughout the fourth volume in both the manuscript and the first edition, with different spellings in the two instances in the third volume, which have been brought into line here. Montserrat. ‘Montserrat’ appeared most frequently in the manuscript with a final ‘e’, but was not consistently so spelled, and it once or twice began with ‘Mount’. The proofs nearly always adopted ‘Montserrat’ (and often corrected the ‘e’ when it occurred; there were two examples of Mountserrat), and in the first edition there were only two aberrations from the form adopted here. Nectanabus. The spelling of ‘Nectanabus’ was variable in the manuscript, with ‘Nectabanus’ and ‘Nectabamus’ each occurring once. The printers (presumably influenced by the copyist) had difficulty in the proofs, and initially printed only the first two letters of the name

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followed by a space. Scott’s completion of the first instance with ‘bectanus’ did not help, as it spawned a crop of mis-spellings in the later proofs of Volume 3, including ‘Nebectamus’. Scott’s corrections of these were very variable, as he sometimes only offered a single syllable or only part of the word. By the first edition most of these spellings were tidied up, with ‘Nectabanus’ being adopted in nearly all cases. In the present edition it has been decided to adopt (against the first edition) the form of the great majority of instances in the surviving manuscript (17 out of 19). Sheerkohf. ‘Sheerkohf ’ was spelled in four different ways in the manuscript, and ‘Shurkopt’ (not a manuscript spelling) was initially adopted on the proofs. Scott and others regularly corrected this in the third volume to the above form, but allowed two other versions (in the three occurrences of the name there) to pass in the fourth volume, which have been brought into line in this edition. Theodorick. ‘Theodorick’ was first called ‘Hierome’ in the manuscript, and then ‘Theodorick’, ‘Diderick’, ‘Diederick’ and ‘Theodoric’. The proofs used ‘Theodorick’, apart from one instance of ‘Theoderick’, but the first edition, while mostly using ‘Theodorick’, also let ‘Theodoric’ and ‘Theodrick’ past. Since ‘Theodorick’ is the commonest in both proofs and first edition it has been adopted here throughout. A particularly interesting feature in the usage of names in the novel, however, is the variation that Scott permitted himself in the naming of his central character, who appears as both ‘Kenneth’ and ‘Sir Kenneth’. This is not carelessness on the author’s part, for when the narrator refers to him he is generally ‘Kenneth’, but when others address him he is ‘Sir Kenneth’. This distinction between intimate and formal is a useful one in the novel, as it casts a sympathetic tone over the narrator’s handling of Kenneth, and enhances the reader’s sense of identification with him. The intermediaries (probably James Ballantyne) often added ‘Sir’ both pre-proof and on the proofs, so that ‘Sir Kenneth’ became the form of the name which predominated in the first edition. The present edition has chosen to return to Scott’s less formal usage when his manuscript and his proof corrections indicate it (there are nearly a hundred emendations removing ‘Sir’), but no attempt has been made to emend when there is no prompting from the author himself. This means that some inconsistency remains, but that there has been no interference with the author’s express wishes. A similar variation between ‘Hugh’ and ‘Hugo’ for one of the principal characters occurs in The Betrothed. All in all, the present text has aimed to return as closely as possible to Scott’s original conception of the novel. The changes made are individually small, but cumulatively represent a noticeable clarification of the detail of the text. The Talisman was quickly popular at its original

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publication, and has remained one of the Waverley Novels that has been widely read both for its exotic location and characters, as well as for the excitement of its plot. In its new guise it deserves to continue to see its reputation enhanced. Conclusion. While his study of Chivalry was in press in 1825, Charles Mills added the following statement: While these volumes were passing through the press, the Tales of the Crusaders appeared. . . . In the composition of his tales, the author of Waverley has seldom shown much respect for historical keeping. But greater accuracy than his no person had a right to expect in the text of a mere novel; and as long as he gave his readers no excuse for confounding fiction with truth, the play of his brilliant and excursive imagination was harmless. . . . But his assertion respecting the marriage of Saladin with his “Edith of Plantagenet” is a very different case. For here he throws aside the fanciful garb of a novelist, and quits the privilege of his text, that he may gravely and critically vouch in a note for the errors of our historians, and his own superior knowledge. If this can possibly be done merely to heighten the illusion of his romance it is carrying the jest a little too far; for the preservation of historical truth is really too important a principle to be idly violated. But if he seriously designed to unite the province of the historian with that of the novelist, he has chosen a very unlucky expedient for his own reputation; and thus, in either case, he has rather wantonly led his readers into error, and brought against others a charge of ignorance, which must recoil more deservedly on himself.88 It is a spectacularly uncomprehending note. However, while The Talisman is still read, Mills’s History of Chivalry is not, and the reason is that while Scott may have taken many liberties with historical detail he created an exciting and absorbing story that is intellectually challenging in its discussion of the clash of cultures and religions that created the Crusades. The East is strongly present in Ivanhoe, but this is the first Waverley novel in which East and West confront each other. And what is remarkable about the confrontation is that of the rulers and leaders presented in The Talisman it is Saladin who is making the greatest attempt to negotiate an understanding with the other. Saladin had long been regarded as a chivalric hero in western literature, but in his adaptation of a traditional motif Scott creates in the shape-shifting character of The Talisman a hero whose transformations enable him to transcend the boundaries of culture, class and faith. Tales of the Crusaders is a remarkable achievement. The pair of novels contrast the experience of a young woman and a young man during the Third Crusade, one who stays at home and the other who fights in the Holy Land. Scott draws upon the troubadour motif of the

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abandoned woman besieged by would-be suitors for the one, and the eastern tale for the other. He transforms them both. He studies the central practice of chivalry, the worship of woman, and he transcends what he himself had written in his ‘Essay on Chivalry’ by turning historical observation of the practices of chivalry into felt experience.  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

23 24 25 26 27

Abbé [René Aubert] de Vertot, The History of the Knights of Malta, 2 vols (London, 1728): Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford (Edinburgh, 1838), 270. The original French version published in 1726 is also there: CLA, 41. Scott on Himself, ed. David Hewitt (Edinburgh, 1981), 34.  743, f. 147r; Saint Ronan’s Well, ed. Mark Weinstein,     16, 373. See also Saint Ronan’s Well, 155–60, 205 and 361.  21024, f. 3v. The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson and others, 12 vols (London 1932–37), 8.168. Letters, 8.241n. Letters, 8.244.  21014, f. 21r. Letters, 8.290–91. Letters, 8.310.  21014, f. 26r. Letters, 8.109. Letters, 8.129. Letters, 8.339. This letter, to Lady Abercorn, is dated 2 August by James C. Corson, in Notes and Index to Sir Herbert Grierson’s Edition of the Letters of Sir Walter Scott (Oxford, 1979), 236. Letters, 8.339–40. Letters, 8.342. Letters, 8.67, dated 1 August 1824 by Corson, 224, note 66a. The Betrothed, ed. J. B. Ellis with others,     18a, 283. Letters, 8.436. Carne’s book, Letters from the East, was published in 1826, but part of it appeared earlier in the New Monthly Magazine. Life and Letters of William Bewick, ed. Thomas Landseer, 2 vols (London, 1871), 1.246–47. This was determined by Lord Newton in the long arbitration process on the ownership of works in progress following Scott’s insolvency in January 1826: see Woodstock, ed. Tony Inglis with others,     19, 424–26.  683, f. 36v. Scott had contracts to write five novels following Kenilworth (  323, f. 204r); in the undated memorandum at   683, f. 36v the number had risen to eight, which covered the 7 titles from The Pirate to Tales of the Crusaders, plus the eighth which was not written.  21015, f. 21r.  743, f. 193: to James Ballantyne, Monday [10 May]. Letters, 8.343.  23118, f. 3r.  743, f. 224r.

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28 Letters, 8.405–06. The letter is dated 20 October; but Grierson shows from internal evidence that 20 September is probable. In the letter Scott talks of ‘25th next Saturday’; 25 September 1824 was a Saturday, but not 25 October. 29 Letters, 8.405. 30 Letters, 8.416–17. 31  792, f. 197r: 29 October 1824. 32  323, ff. 503v–504r. 33  792, f. 211r. 34  21014, f. 52r. 35  323, f. 507r: 17 December 1824. 36 Letters, 8.465. 37  21014, f. 53v. 38 See the extracts from ‘Captain Hall’s Journal’, in J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 7 vols (Edinburgh 1837–38), 5.374–418. See also Lockhart, 6.1–2. 39 Letters, 8.472. 40 Letters, 8.472–78. 41  3900, ff. 19r, 21r. 42  21015, f. 9v. 43  21015, f. 9v. 44  320, f. 208v. 45  320, f. 212v. 46  320, f. 217v. 47  323, f. 518v: 22 March 1825. 48  320, f. 220r. 49  792, f. 227v. 50  323, f. 537r. 51  320, f. 230r. 52  320, f. 232r. 53  21015, f. 19v. 54 Letters, 9.88–89. 55 Letters, 9.88. 56  320, f. 234r: Constable to Cadell, 25 April 1825. 57  323, f. 544r–v: 29 April 1825. See also his diary entry for 29 April,   21015, f. 20r. 58  21059, ff. 162–63. 59 Letters, 9.113. 60  21015, f. 22v. 61  21015, f. 23r. 62  21015, f. 23v. 63  744, f. 11r. 64  21015, ff. 24v, 25r. 65  792, f. 240v. 66 See E. H. Harvey-Wood, ‘Scott’s Foreign Contacts’, in Scott Bicentenary Essays, ed. Alan Bell (Edinburgh, 1973), 251–55. 67 Life and Letters of William Bewick, ed. Thomas Landseer, 2 vols (London, 1871), 1.242–43. 68  112, p. 95.

322 69 70 71 72 73

74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88

     112, p. 109.  112, pp. 186, 198–208.  112, p. 205.  112, p. 207. See William B. Todd and Ann Bowden, Sir Walter Scott: A Bibliographical History 1796–1832 (New Castle, Delaware, 1998), 819–22. However, it was the practice to postdate books and engravings if they appeared late in the year in order to extend their copyright. Jane Millgate, Scott’s Last Edition: a Study in Publishing History (Edinburgh, 1987). Letters, 7.353. Letters, 7.354n. Letters, 7.360. The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, ed. W. E. K. Anderson (Oxford, 1972), 48. Journal, 62.  112, p. 336. Journal, 634.  15980, f. 35r.  15980, f. 54r.  21021, ff. 20v, 21v, 21v, 23r.  3918, f. 63r.  21021, f. 25v.  21021, ff. 30v, 31r. Charles Mills, The History of Chivalry, 2 vols (London, 1825), 1.xvi–xix.

EMENDATION LIST

The base-text for this edition of The Talisman is a specific copy of the first edition, owned by the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels. All emendations to this base-text, whether verbal, orthographic, or punctuational, are listed below, with the exception of certain general categories of emendation described in the next paragraph, and of those errors which result from accidents of printing such as a letter dropping out, provided always that evidence for the ‘correct’ reading has been found in at least one other copy of the first edition. The proper names Adonbec, Ascalon, Coeur de Lion, Florice, Kurdistan, Kurdman, Kurd, Mahommed, Mahommedan, Melec Ric, Montserrat, Nectanabus, Sheerkohf, and Theodorick have been standardised throughout on the authority of Scott’s preferred usage as deduced from the manuscript and proof corrections (see Essay on the Text, 316–18). Guenevra has been accepted as a standard as it is the only form of the name to be repeated: the   spellings are not clear, and may be different in each of the four occurrences, while Guenevra appears twice in both the proofs and first edition. The word ‘Prophet’ when used of Mahommed is capitalised throughout, being Scott’s preferred usage as deduced from the  and proof corrections. The changes to proper names are not reported individually in the Emendation List, but the changes to ‘Prophet’ that have been required are reported as there are other prophets. Inverted commas are sometimes found in the first edition for displayed verse quotations, sometimes not; the present text has standardised the inconsistent practices of the base-text by eliminating such inverted commas, except when they occur at the beginning or end of direct speech. The typographic presentation of volume and chapter headings, and of the opening words of volumes and chapters has been standardised. Ambiguous end-of-line hyphens in the base-text have been interpreted in accordance with the following authorities (in descending order of priority): predominant first-edition usage; octavo Tales and Romances (1827); Magnum;  . Each entry in the list below is keyed to the text by page and line number; the reference is followed by the new,  reading, then in brackets the reason for the emendation, and after the slash the base-text reading that has been replaced. Occasionally, some explanation of the editorial thinking behind an emendation is required, and this is provided in a brief note. The great majority of emendations are derived from the manuscript. Most merely involve the replacement of one reading by another, and these are listed with the simple explanation ‘()’. The spelling and 323

324   punctuation of some emendations from the manuscript have been normalised in accordance with the prevailing conventions of the basetext. And although as far as possible emendations have been fitted into the existing base-text punctuation, at times it has been necessary to provide emendations with a base-text style of punctuation. Where the manuscript reading adopted by the  has required editorial intervention to normalise spelling or punctuation, the exact manuscript reading is given in the form: ‘( actual reading)’. Where the new reading has required editorial interpretation of the manuscript, e.g. when interpreting a homophone, or supplying a missing word, or distinguishing between Scott’s hand and those who marked-up Scott’s manuscript, the explanation is given in the form ‘( derived: actual reading)’. In transcriptions from Scott’s holograph, deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso; superscript letters are lowered without comment. Readings from the proofs are indicated by ‘proofs’ if from the print, and ‘proof correction’ if in Scott’s holograph. An entry labelled ‘  and proofs’ indicates that the reading is identical in both the manuscript and the printed proofs, and that the text was changed post-proof. ‘ISet’ indicates a correction or revision in Scott’s holograph in the interleaved copy of the novel. In spite of the care taken by the intermediaries, some local confusions in the manuscript persisted into the first edition. When straightening these, the editors have studied the manuscript context so as to determine Scott’s original intention, but sometimes problems cannot be rectified in this way. In these circumstances, Scott’s own corrections and revisions in the Interleaved Set have more authority than the proposals of other editions, but if the autograph portions of the Interleaved Set have nothing to offer, the reading from the earliest edition to offer a satisfactory solution is adopted as the neatest means of rectifying a fault. The later editions, the Interleaved Set, and the Magnum are indicated by ‘(8vo 1827)’, etc., ‘(ISet)’ or ‘(Magnum)’. Emendations which have not been anticipated by a contemporaneous edition are indicated by ‘(Editorial)’. 3.9 3.10 3.12 3.17 3.30 3.31 4.1 4.23 4.26 4.35 4.35 5.17 5.18 6.4 6.24 6.25 6.25

obtained (  obtaind) / attained red cross () / Red-cross alongst () / along these () / those subterranean ( ) / subterraneous were hidden by ( are hidden by) / were hid, even by sluggish ( and proofs) / sullen baret ( ) / barred betwixt ( ) / between in dead (proof correction) / in the dead surcoat, as it was called, of (  and proofs) / surcoat of climate. But (  and proofs) / climate; but amongst () / among entirely unattended ( ) / singly and alone whose (  and proofs) / whom his floating on ( ) / floating in in his ( ) / on his

  6.31 6.40 6.41 7.21 7.22 8.8 8.11 8.11 8.17 8.30 9.7 9.9 9.27 9.28 10.5 10.25 10.32 11.11 11.12 11.15 11.22 11.22 11.30 11.30 11.40 12.1 12.6

12.28 12.40 12.43 13.20 13.26 13.27 13.35 14.8 14.14 14.29 15.3 15.3 15.17 15.22 15.26 15.35 15.40 16.1 16.8 16.9 16.10 16.11

325

saddle and, seizing (  with proof punctuation) / saddle, seized bosses () / loops swaying ( ) / swinging elusory () / illusory might have been at length worn out () / might at length have been worn out reach. () / reach! grasp ( ) / hold him ( ) / his fatal grasp he ( ) / He felt that ( ) / felt, that considered as secured ( ) / endeared personal ( ) / permanent Prophet (Editorial) / prophet See Essay on the Text, 315. Syrians. But () / Syrians, but entertain them ( ) / be their prey by () / in care—but ( ) / care; but wouldst ( ) / would’st doest ( ) / dost in ( ) / on rock—Let ( ) / rock. Let devise ( ) / speak sense ( ) / manner understand ( ) / receive sayst ( ) / sayest canst ( ) / can’st bubbled out under, and then, as if in gratitude, nourished them with its crystal waters. ( bubbled out under and then and as if in gratitude nourshd them with its chrystal waters) / welled out from beneath their shade in sparkling profusion. cared for () / attended to instinct () / interest stores ( ) / store beautiful teeth (  derived: beautifully teeth) / beautifully white teeth well-proportioned, the ( ) / well-proportioned; the strong, and (  derived: strong and) / strong; and northern ( ) / western upon old-fashioned sign-posts () / upon sign-posts proportion () / proportions on ( ) / in A moderate draught (proof correction) / A few draughts lively ( ) / lovely manners. After ( ) / manners; and, after wolf—Even ( ) / wolf? Even then ( and proofs) / thou refuse.” (proofs) / refuse!” sorrow—he (  and proofs) / sorrow. He eyes ( ) / eye “Nazarene, ( ) / “O Narazene, compassion—Seest () / compassion. See’st mosque ( ) / Mosque doest (  and proofs) / dost

326 16.13 16.16 16.16 16.36 16.40 16.40 17.2

17.4 17.6 17.11 17.12 17.13 17.14 17.22 17.24 17.32 17.32 17.33 17.33 17.34 18.1 18.18 18.26 18.27 18.31 18.34 18.36 19.7 19.12 19.19 19.20 19.30 19.33 19.38 19.42 19.42 19.43 20.3 20.5 20.6 20.7 20.16 20.28 20.34 20.35 20.36 20.38

  doest (  and proofs) / dost slavery. Whereas to (  slavery Whereas to) / slavery; whereas, to faithful hath ( and proofs) / faithful, hath entire—the ( ) / entire; the gold. ( ) / gold! closely! (proof correction Look m more closelyo!) / closely. borrowing and returning his (  derived) / borrowing his The   has ‘and re-’ at the folio turn-over, with ‘re-’ as catchword, but neither the catchword nor the completion of it appear on the next leaf. circlet () / signet parable—for () / parable; for affections () / affection couldst ( ) / could’st wouldst ( ) / would’st Their beauty gives (  and proofs) / The beauty of our fair ones gives sepulchre—Yet ( ) / sepulchre. But yet my ( ) / mine seemst (  and 8vo) / seemest esteem—There ( ) / esteem. There shouldst ( ) / should’st several the fairest ( ) / several of the fairest ten-thousand-fold whatever thou canst conceive of ( ) / ten-thousand-fold the lustre of Saladin’s (Magnum) / Saladine’s shouldst ( ) / should’st “Truth has (  Tru thas) / “The truth has shouldst ( ) / should’st leagues ( ) / miles yourself were ( ) / yourself, were good or evil ( ) / good or for evil anchorets ( ) / anchorites said to Yezed Ben Sophian, when (  said to Yezed Ben Sophian when) / said, ‘Yezed Ben Sophian,’ when dwellings—But ( ) / dwellings. But those ( ) / them anchoret ( ) / anchorite The   reads either ‘anchoret’ or ‘anchorit’, but ‘anchoret’ is the predominant form. infidel”—— ( ) / infidel——” he so well bears himself ( ) / he bears himself so well breath the () / breath, the with”—— ( ) / with——” frame () / form knowst ( ) / knowest thy hermit (proof correction) / the hermit wouldst ( ) / would’st by ( and proofs) / on indeed, indispensable () / indeed, of indispensable further ( ) / farther mounted ( ) / remounted dipped ( dipd) / dipt pagan ( ) / Pagan remembrance, for (proofs) / remembrance; for

  21.2 21.12 21.17 21.21 21.28 21.34 21.35 21.39 22.2 22.10 22.15 22.15 22.16 22.21 22.22 22.22 22.30 22.30 22.32 22.38 23.2 23.4 23.7 23.8 23.10 23.11 23.12 23.13 23.14 23.19 23.22 23.24 23.31 23.32 23.36 24.2 24.3 24.4 24.9 24.13 24.22

24.28 24.38 24.41 25.6 25.12 25.21 25.22 25.22 25.30 25.31 25.34

327

is it named () / is it so named passed (  [passd] and proofs) / past times ( ) / time rocks, the ( ) / rocks, on the thing—Let ( ) / thing. Let Leopard—at ( ) / Leopard; at ear—Brave ( ) / ear. Brave Arab—yet ( ) / Arab, yet derives ( ) / claims fifty men (proof correction) / fifty more men of the eagle ( ) / of an eagle eagle—when (  and proofs) / eagle. When these () / them northern (  and proofs) / western shouldst ( ) / should’st steel glove ( , 8vo, Magnum) / steel-glove Sheerkohf (  Sheerkoph) / Saracen title (  and proofs) / style sovereigns, even (proof correction) / sovereigns even Sheerkohf (  Sheerkoh) / the Emir of ( ) / in to (ISet) / upon Thine () / thine bestowed.” (proofs) / bestowed?” is that we () / is we sayst ( ) / sayest nobly—But () / nobly; but wouldst ( ) / would’st sayst (  saist) / sayest northerner ( northern) / Knight answered ( answerd) / ejaculated taskmasters—With () / taskmasters? with no! ( ) / sir, is all too () / is too northern (  and proofs) / western for ( ) / in sayst ( ) / sayest so—and ( ) / so; and hand () / beard the narrow ( ) / his narrow glitter ( ) / glimmer Scott added a passage on the facing verso to replace a similar one that he had cancelled on the recto. The original version more appropriately used ‘glitter’. amuse () / convince bounds ( ) / binds time, narrow passages, deep ( ) / time, deep despair ( ) / desperation strength. But ( ) / strength; but frames () / forms oppressed (  derived: oppessd) / possessed companion ( ) / associate are fond ( ) / are so fond and therefore peculiarly ( ) / and which, therefore, were peculiarly sang ( ) / sung

328 25.36 26.2 26.3 26.6 26.10 26.12 26.13 26.16 26.21 26.22 26.23 26.24 26.25 26.38 26.40 26.41 26.43 27.11 27.25 27.36 28.11 28.15 28.15 28.16 28.18 28.19 28.21 28.23 28.26 28.30 28.39 29.21 29.23 30.19 30.38 30.41 30.43 30.44 31.3 31.12 31.17 31.18 31.28 31.29 32.5 32.6 32.20 32.22 32.25 32.35 32.41 32.41 32.42 33.8

  turn ( ) / train a lay () / the lay Rudhiki ( ) / Rudpiki shouldst ( ) / should’st mortals—I ( ) / mortals. I Of this place I ( ) / It is enough, that I beware by ( ) / beware of this place by although—alas for thee!—thy () / although, alas, for thee! thy courtesy (  derived: coursey) / ceremony western () / Western enjoy what you ( ) / enjoy a treat which fashions. Wherefore () / pastimes—Wherefore shouldst ( ) / should’st speakst ( ) / speakest Christian (  and proofs) / crusader some () / their God—I ( ) / God. I Kenneth (8vo) / Alan raised ( ) / levied their ( ) / these those who ( ) / those, who persecuting—it is false—we are ( and proofs) / persecuting. It is false. We are generous—only ( and proofs) / generous; only offended () / affronted source ( ) / Origin source () / Source convey ( ) / carry monsters ( ) / ministers a Persian () / the Persian never seen ( ) / never again seen Sir Knight () / sir knight chant some verses ( ) / chant verses Arimanes, or the ( ) / Arimanes, the within— (proof correction) / within; sound (  and proofs) / effect cause () / causes revelation ( ) / Revelation translation ( ) / translator Arch-fiend ( ) / arch-fiend discover ( ) / discern Scotsman ( ) / Scotchman were () / to be saved ( ) / spared figure (  and proofs) / apparition dagger? ( ) / dagger! canst—” and ( ) / canst!” and Whosoever ( Who so ever) / Whosoe’er thee—therefore ( ) / thee; therefore faith—Art ( ) / faith! Art Ilderim, for (proofs) / Ilderim! for subject ( ) / subjected doest ( ) / dost far. For ( ) / far; for words—of () / words. Of

  33.13 33.13 33.14 33.32 33.34 33.34 33.35 34.3 34.4 34.16 34.17 34.21 34.22 34.23 34.24 34.43 35.1 35.4 35.4 35.10 35.31 36.4 36.33 37.38 38.16 38.20 38.25 38.35 39.5 39.19 39.27 39.32 40.10 40.17 40.26 40.29 40.34 40.34 40.40 40.43 41.3 41.4 41.6 41.6 41.7 41.30 41.41 42.36 42.39 42.40 43.18 43.36 43.38

tardy—in ( ) / tardy in help—But () / help; but assailant—the ( ) / assailant, the anchoret ( ) / anchorite “This—” () / “This!” Kenneth (Magnum) / Alan this—thou ( ) / this!—thou seest ( ) / see’st which Kenneth ( derived: which Alan) / which Sir Kenneth becometh ( ) / becomes diminished ( diminishd) / disturbed torch-bearer ( ) / torch-brand infidels—the (proofs) / infidels! The shelter—neither (  derived: shelter neither) / shelter; neither The dash is the predominant punctuation mark in this utterance. lanthorn ( ) / lantern imminent () / eminent Glad man he () / Glad he composed of wood (proof correction) / composed of a piece of wood dipped ( dipd) / dipt anchoret (Editorial) / anchorite anchoret (Editorial) / anchorite anchoret (Editorial) / anchorite solitary (proofs) / recluse rashid (8vo) / Rashid “Brave Saracen ( ) / “Beware, Saracen many—In (  and proofs) / many. In anchoret ( ) / anchorite the buckler ( ) / his buckler Prophet (Editorial) / prophet anchoret ( ) / anchorite lingua franca (Editorial) / Lingua Franca See Essay on the Text, 314. anchoret ( ) / anchorite necessary ( ) / many severities ( ) / severity veil which he inquired (  and proofs) / veil inquired anchoret ( ) / anchorite it—Alas ( ) / it! Alas Alas, I ( derived: Alas I) / Alas! I Scottish ( ) / Scotish Council (proof correction) / council solitary ( and proofs) / recluse Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth seemed (  seemd) / were saintly?—“My ( derived: saintly “My) / saintly,—“My kings (proof correction kingmso) / Kings [  king] idea () / meaning dropped ( dropd) / dropt which Kenneth ( ) / which Sir Kenneth columns on ( ) / columns, on skill, and (  derived: skill and) / skill; and sang ( ) / sung folds ( ) / fold Abide—abide ( ) / Abide, abide

329

330 43.39 43.39 44.7 44.9 44.14 44.19 44.20 44.30 45.4 45.4 45.7 45.13 45.15 45.16 45.28 46.1 46.7 46.8 46.22 46.26 46.32 46.32 46.42 47.4 47.7 47.9 47.15 47.22 47.24 47.28 48.5 48.12 48.15 48.17 48.19 48.23 48.41 49.7 49.11 49.13 49.14 49.27 49.33 49.38 49.39 50.7 50.24 50.25 50.26 50.35 51.9 51.12

  mayst ( ) / may’st raised ( ) / reared Kenneth (proof correction) / Sir Kenneth [ and proofs he] meet () / met further ( ) / farther lauds () / lauds Church (Editorial) / church the open door ( ) / the door him, while ( derived: him while) / him; while sing. The knight ( derived: sing Kenneth) / sing, the knight ‘Kenneth’ was changed to ‘the knight’ between   and proof, probably to reduce repetition. Church ( ) / church votaresses ( ) / votresses procession was (proof correction) / procession which he beheld was was composed of (  derived: was [new line] posed of) / was formed of Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth more ( ) / dearer Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth ends ( ) / end incidental ( ) / accidental awanting ( ) / wanting gold—It ( and proofs) / gold. It this ( ) / the doubled ( ) / double sense. For () / sense; for Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth were ( ) / was stepped ( stepd) / stept retired ( ) / returned ray, had wrapped (proof correction) / ray, wrapped reward () / animate flowed in secret, unwillingly () / flowed, unwillingly oftentime ( ) / oftentimes honour () / heroism These ( ) / The flatteries ( ) / flattery Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth degree.” And ( ) / degree;” and which can throw ( ) / which throws lover. Above ( ) / lovers; above Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth complexion (  and proofs) / complection dropped ( dropd) / dropt discerned ( ) / discovered Enough such (proof correction) / Enough, that such explanation (  and proofs) / narrative Edith—he ( ) / Edith, he grace—he ( ) / grace, he sanctity—a (  and proofs) / sanctity. A shining (  shning) / streaming misshapen (8vo) / mishapen Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth

  51.24 51.27 51.27

51.33 51.36 52.1 52.8 52.12 53.15 53.25 53.42 53.42 53.42 54.2 54.3 54.13 54.22

54.27 55.8 55.11 55.20 55.22 55.42 56.5 56.8 56.8 56.25 56.35 56.37 56.40 57.2 57.8 57.29 57.29 58.2 58.6 58.7 58.19 58.43 59.14 59.17 59.24 59.29 59.35 59.39 60.9 60.13

331

former in ( ) / former, in mimics ( ) / mimes manœuvre (  derived) / minuteness The copyist apparently had difficulty with this word, and a space was left in the proofs. Scott supplied ‘gestures’ there, but it was not adopted by Ed1. The ligature follows the practice of Ed1. lustre (8vo) / brilliancy Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth abortive-seeming ( ) / abortion-seeming lanthorn ( ) / lantern place—Take ( ) / place. Take “Begone—begone () / “Begone, begone to rest—to rest ( ) / to rest, to rest rest—you ( and proofs) / rest. You cell. But (  and proofs) / cell; but anchoret (Editorial) / anchorite awakening (proof correction awakning) / awaking Old Play [new line] Walk in, Ladies and Gentlemen. [new line] Exeter Change (  Old play [new line] Walk in Ladies and Gentlemen [new line] Exeter Change) / Old Play. See Explanatory Note. betwixt Saint Jean ( ) / betwixt Jean whose ( ) / whom appreciate () / apprehend was a perpetual (proof correction) / was perpetual objective ( objection[?]) / object Council ( ) / council endure (  enure) / excuse attendants gave ( ) / attendants, gave understand that () / understand, that perhaps from ( ) / perhaps, from surnames ( ) / sirnames English by (proof correction) / English, by narrow valley (  and proofs) / Narrow Valley for ( ) / from was at least as shrewd and as ambitious as he (  and proofs) / was not less shrewd and aspiring, than he glances ( ) / gleams start ( ) / shoot moon ( ) / morn scars. His (  scars His) / scars; his moustaches ( ) / moustachios his large size, blunt (proof correction) / his blunt weighty ( ) / mighty Ha?”( ) / Ha!” stirring ( ) / bearing ourselves themselves, at least where (proof correction) / themselves, where “True—true—” ( ) / “True, true!” battle-axe and brandished it over ( ) / battle-axe, and was then brandished over on ( and proof correction) / in mayst ( ) / mayest What ( ) / what

332 60.13 60.29 60.34 60.39 60.41 61.11 61.13 61.14 61.18 61.19 61.20 61.22 61.23 61.23 61.24 61.34 61.35 61.36 61.39 61.41 61.43 62.7 62.8 62.10 62.16 62.17 62.17 62.20 62.21 62.28 62.38 63.1 63.8 63.16 63.29 63.30 63.35 64.12 64.23 64.30 64.32 64.34 65.11 65.12 65.41 65.43 66.3 66.14 66.23 66.26

  laming (  derived) / cold Because the word was difficult to read (lamey or laimy), a space was left on the proofs, which Scott filled with ‘cold’. the praise which he had (  derived: the praise which had) / the phrase which had this ( ) / This shot ( ) / struck phalanx—Why ( ) / phalanx.—Why Montjoie ( ) / Mountjoie arrière (8vo) / arriere upon () / to Arch-Duke (  Arch Duke) / Archduke burly (8vo) / burley thy lucky indifference ( ) / thy indifference better ( ) / bolder wren—Out ( ) / wren. Out him—he (  with post-proof italics) / him!—he glory—give () / glory!—Give Beau-Seant!” ( ) / Beau-Seant?” Amaury—He ( ) / Amaury—he begins—But () / begins. But pagan ( ) / Pagan in vaults ( in 〈the〉 vaults) / in the vaults Saint ( ) / St shippers ( ) / skippers Saint ( ) / St —“What (8vo) / —What inward () / inmost colour ( ) / colours Ay! ( : Aye!) / ay, steel spike-heads () / steel-spikes Marquis () / marquis lion—But () / lion. But swagger, unless (  swagger unless) / swagger in, unless But () / but emprize () / enterprize outer ( ) / inner mood—It () / mood. It England—But ( ) / England. But chamberlains, pages (  chamberlains pages) / chamberlain’s pages or ( ) / and times ( ) / time William (Magnum) / Alexander his () / the dissension ( ) / disunion that ( ) / the which (Editorial) / that than negatively, by shunning (  than negatively by shunning) / than by regularly shunning meet with them ( ) / meet them unrepaid () / unreplied to all those intermediate relations which were too ( ) / all the intermediate relations, as too Saracens. And ( ) / Saracens; and heard, while in this mall, almost the centre of the camp, he could

 

66.32 66.32 66.34 66.40 66.43 66.43 67.1 67.1 67.2 67.7 67.12 67.16 67.38 68.3 68.6 68.6 68.8 68.13 68.15 68.18 68.19 68.22 68.33 68.42 69.1 69.6 69.9 69.10 69.12 69.12 69.13 69.38 69.40 70.16 70.21 70.24 70.30 70.33 70.39 71.14 71.31 71.43 72.9 72.11 72.14

333

see, mingled ( derived) / heard, almost in the centre of the camp, and as he saw, with great surprise, mingled The   of this passage is difficult. The word ‘mall’ is inserted above the line: it begins with ‘m’ and ends with ‘l’ or ‘t’. The intermediaries were in doubt, and offered ‘while in this [space] almost’ on the proofs, which led to the re-construction adopted. Surprised and (  and proofs) / Wondering and singular, for (  singular for) / singular,—for barriers, the ( barriers the) / barriers,—the well, for (8vo) / well for Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth louring () / lowering communion ( ) / communication thee.” But ( and proofs) / thee;” but to meet him ( ) / to him Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth sick-chambers ( ) / sick chambers counsel ( ) / council fair knight (  and proofs) / sir knight Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth mission ( ) / message intrusted, sir, therewith, (  intrusted Sir therewith) / intrusted with it, Sir Kenneth, Kenneth, “though ( Kenneth “though) / Kenneth. “Though sovereign. I ( ) / sovereign, I sayst (  and proofs) / say’st mayst ( ) / may’st themselves.” ( ) / themselves against it.” Sir Thomas ( ) / Thomas exhibited. “Tell () / exhibited, “Tell granting (which I do not doubt) that (8vo) / granting, (which I do not doubt,) that this ( ) / thus which has now, in valiant King Richard, disabled () / which, in valiant King Richard, has disabled leech—this El Hakim—hath ( ) / leech, this El Hakim, hath sleep—that ( ) / sleep. That this ( ) / the doubt—that () / doubt; that forwards ( ) / forward harps ( ) / lamps dropped ( dropd) / dropt Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth which it is, perhaps, as ( ) / which, perhaps, it is as placed near ( ) / laid beside Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth come back ( ) / return you that this () / you, this either of you, (Editorial) / either, The   reads ‘on which you and’ which does not make good sense

334

72.21 72.22 72.22 72.26 72.38 73.8 73.19 73.19 73.38 73.41 74.3 74.3 74.23 74.32 75.22 75.24 75.24 75.32 76.4 76.13 76.13 76.24 76.24 76.26 76.41 77.1 77.4 77.13 77.18 77.20 77.28 77.31 77.38 78.2 78.8 78.9 78.12 78.16

78.21 78.23 78.24 78.25 78.27 78.32 78.35 78.36 78.37 79.4 80.2

  on its own. Since the Hakim is addressing both de Vaux and Sir Kenneth, the ‘either’ supplied by the intermediaries is helpful, but somewhat elliptical without the ‘you’. Kenneth with () / Sir Kenneth, with farewell, and ( farewell and) / farewell—and Vaux as if () / Vaux, as if kindness. He (8vo) / kindness He Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth report ( ) / respect kindness—I ( ) / kindness. I heartily—The (  and proofs) / heartily. The tried ( ) / endeavoured world, fair sir. I ( world fair sir. I) / world, sir.—I Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth not—Roswal ( ) / not; Roswal courage () / carriage vainglory () / vain glory northern ( ) / Northern breast and ( ) / breast, and white but ( ) / white, but ran ( ) / runs mêlée (Magnum) / melee your aid ( ) / you, and skill. And ( ) / skill; and King of Kings () / king of kings Light and Refuge ( ) / light and refuge Whereas we ( ) / Whereas, we courage to (  and proofs) / courage, to warfare () / weapon Prophet—it ( and proofs) / Prophet! It both—Haste () / both. Haste enemy”—— ( ) / enemy——” kings—I (  and proofs) / kings. I hesitate before ( ) / before hesitate mine ( ) / my burthened ( ) / burdened Vaux he ( , Magnum) / Vaux, he think that () / think, that earth was that () / earth, was, that prelate, “there (8vo) / prelate,” there potestis—Unless (8vo) / potestis—‘Unless The quotation from the Vulgate is on a ‘paper apart’. When it was added a new opening quotation mark was provided but that before the English translation was not deleted. capacity. Quod ( capacity Quod) / capacity—quod Thomas de Vaux ( ) / Thomas De Vaux quotations ( ) / quotation them () / it in () / with Saracen—They ( ) / Saracen. They escape—They ( ) / escape. They leather—nay ( ) / leather, nay wherefore, knowing (Editorial) / wherefore knowing lord—I ( ) / lord. I silence for () / silence, for

  80.6 80.11 80.11

80.12 80.12 80.23 80.23 80.29 80.36 80.36 80.37 80.41 80.44

81.2 81.4 81.5 81.10 81.14 81.27 81.36 81.36

81.41 82.13 82.29 83.11 83.21 83.25 84.1 84.2 84.6 84.23 84.28 84.34 84.41 84.42 85.9 85.27 85.27

335

which we have mentioned (proofs) / current in the country [  which have mentiond] knewst ( ) / knewest aught of medicine, Giaour,” () / aught of medicine,” The   reads: ‘ “. . . ought of Giaour”’; the printed proofs have ‘ “. . . aught of Gea,”’. Ballantyne deleted ‘Gea’, writing ‘Giaour (I think)’, and Scott supplied ‘medicine’. However, ‘Giaour’ was not transferred to the text. shouldst (proofs should’st) / would’st [  should] council ( ) / counsel strongly the ( ) / strongly, the at the () / at this unless where shaded by his ( ) / where they were seen under the shade of his more old (  and proofs) / older Hegira.” [new paragraph] ( ) / Hegira.”* [new paragraph] assertion that ( ) / assertion, that demanded what ( ) / demanded, what [no footnote] ( ) / *Meaning, that his attainments were those which might have been made in a hundred years. See Essay on the Text, 314. The note is not by Scott, but derives from a dialogue between Scott and Ballantyne on the proofs. wouldst ( ) / would’st We ( ) / I not the () / not to the the reed against a target () / a silken doublet against a lance questions ( ) / question dipped ( dipd) / dipt in a token ( in an token) / in token and he inquired for his master in a subdued and submissive voice. (proofs and proof correction and he inquired, mfor his mastero in a subdued and submissive voice.) / as he inquired, in a subdued and submissive voice, for his master [ and he enquired with a subdued and submissive voice.] red cross ( ) / red-cross conquering ( ) / second Gilsland; “he ( derived: Gilsland “he) / Gilsland. “He me?” (8vo) / me,” error ( ) / errors scarce comprehensible () / nearly incomprehensible speculate upon ( and proofs) / would have made the subject of speculation extraordinary that (  and proofs) / extraordinary, even to him, that concerning ( ) / announcing crusade, there were many (  derived: crusade there many) / crusade, were many may be all ( and proofs) / may mean nothing but Vaux only considered his ( ) / Vaux was influenced only by his The proofs printed ‘concentered’, which Scott partially deleted, adding ‘sid’, and thus returned to the  . de Vaux () / De Vaux than ( ) / when message ( ) / messenger blade ( ) / sword William the Lion () / William, the Lion

336 86.1 86.5 86.6 86.15 86.18 86.20 86.36 86.36 86.38 86.39

86.41 87.1 87.2 87.11 87.12 87.14 87.17 87.19 88.6 88.20 88.23 88.24 88.34 88.34 88.37 89.11 89.16 89.18 89.19 89.22 89.23 89.33 89.34 89.41 89.41 89.42 90.9 90.13 90.26 90.35 90.35 90.39 90.43 91.1 91.5 92.10

  face, and ( derived) / face, beheld, and In the  ‘mand beholding smiled inwardly at theo’ was added on the facing verso, and must have been intended to replace ‘beheld’. matter—We (  and proofs) / matter. We as do your (  derived: as to your) / as your frist ( ) / fist wouldst ( ) / would’st crown—To ( ) / crown. To directed—that (proof correction) / directed. That should have, I trust for but a short time, secluded your ( should have I trust for but a short time—secluded your) / should seclude, I trust for but a short time, your Christendom—But (  and proofs) / Christendom; but from (  derived) / on The letters ‘fr’ are written at the very end of one folio and ‘on’ at the start of the next. The bottom corner of the leaf is damaged. The emendation presumes that Scott intended to write ‘from’. sayest ( ) / say’st roundly—What ( ) / roundly. What an it ( ) / and fellow—Hark ( ) / fellow! Hark Knight—I () / Knight, I of the times (  derived: of times) / of state restored (  and proofs) / re-established re-established (proof correction) / restored exclaimed ( exclaimd) / said renowned (  renownd) / reverend hold (  and proofs) / regard for ( and proofs) / as recovery ( ) / security Palestine,—as of his own salvation,—by (proof correction) / Palestine, as of his own salvation, by And countenances the coward policy of these () / And therefore, the coward policy of this hermit is like that of these Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Berengaria ( ) / Berengarine Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth anchoret ( Anchoret) / anchorite could not ( ) / cannot were ( ) / was enough—Leopard (  and proofs) / enough. Leopard paw—Hark ( ) / paw. Hark physician—My (  and proofs) / physician. My Soldan—would (  and proofs) / Soldan! Would crowd (  croud) / sword reply—“who ( ) / reply. “Who beard—they ( beard they) / beard. They Order ( ) / order bore () / bare baculus (Editorial) / abacus paganism ( ) / Paganism counsel ( ) / council festivity. But (  and proofs) / festivity; but leagues ( ) / leaguers Unbelieving ( ) / Misbelieving

  92.20 92.25 92.25 92.33 92.34 92.39 93.1 93.6 93.9 93.9 93.11 93.11 93.27 94.8 95.6 95.8 95.28 96.5 96.13 96.19 96.20 96.23 96.30 96.31 96.38 97.4 97.8 97.10 97.13

97.17 97.32 97.35 97.40 97.43 98.10 98.12 98.14 98.23 98.25

98.28 98.31 99.1 99.7 99.11 99.13 99.24 99.28 100.3

you ( ) / thee so you shall (  and proof correction) / so shall you charges ( ) / danger thirsty ( ) / thirsting with the ( ) / with one but had () / had but Ouie ( and proof correction) / Ouie Honoured (  Honourd) / Noble may hear ( ) / have heard can ( ) / can so—Time ( ) / so. Time precious—if ( ) / precious. If lingua franca (Editorial) / Lingua Franca dipped ( dipd) / dipt corslet ( ) / sword mute ( and proofs) / deep knight. It ( and proofs) / knight! It sentinels, as (proofs) / sentinels as Amaury, for (  and proofs) / Amaury, I would pray you for himself— “there ( ) / himself; “there disguise. What ( ) / disguise. And now, what Master. “Yet () / Master; “yet armament () / armaments What ( ) / what Saracens () / Saracen Conrade, King (proofs) / Conrade King government. A (  government A) / government: A flock—All ( ) / flock. All nominal king (  derived) / monarch The first word almost certainly reads ‘nominal’ in the  , but the first two letters have amalgamated under a small spillage of ink. The word ‘king’ is not in the , but since ‘nominal’ is at the end of a line, Scott may well have omitted the noun it was to precede. fen, or here (  fen or here) / fence—here either—impeach () / either. Impeach too (  and proofs) / somewhat meanst (  Meanst) / swearest planned ( pland) / spoken of more (proof correction) / were together. For ( ) / together; for Order ( ) / order Order (Editorial) / order you, reverend Grand Master, know as well as I, that (proofs and proof correction you, m〈reverend〉 reverend Grand Master knowo as well as I, that) / you as well as I, reverend Grand Master, know, that Order (Editorial) / order experienced—Give (  and proofs) / experienced. Give accession ( ) / succession bosom—Yet ( and proofs) / bosom. Yet himself—He ( ) / himself. He Palestine—any (  and proofs) / Palestine. Any like ( ) / likely hosts; and (proofs) / hosts? and well, if (proofs) / well if

337

338 100.3 100.8 100.9 100.11 100.20 100.22 100.23 100.25 100.31 100.31 100.34 100.43 101.13 101.18 101.26 101.28 101.30 101.42 103.28 104.8 104.28 104.33 104.39 104.42 105.10 105.19 105.26 105.30 105.38 106.15 106.16 106.23 107.22 108.5 108.7 108.11 108.17 108.37 109.3 109.22 110.13 110.14 110.27 110.31 111.19 111.22 111.23 112.2 113.9 113.14 113.31

  cords and (  and proofs) / cords, and princes will dare () / princes dare banners ( ) / banner Montserrat—“Ere () / Montserrat; “ere stopped (  stopd) / stopt strongly ( ) / eagerly sayst ( ) / say’st What? ( ) / What! Knowst ( ) / Know’st lookst () / look’st who has stumbled upon ( ) / who, stumbling upon leprous and in (proof correction) / leprous, in parted. Conrade (  derived: parted—Conrade) / parted.—Conrade Scott’s dashes are normally translated into full-stops in narrative. Epicurean () / epicurean vengeance. Who ( and proofs) / vengeance! Who Order (Editorial) / order dared () / durst strangely ( ) / strongly in a degree () / in a certain degree Cyprus ( ) / Cypress cut and flourished and fringed in () / cut, and flourished, and fringed, in back ( ) / backs better would ( ) / would better style (  stile) / state sayer of sayings (proof correction) / sayer of sayings counsellor—he (  and proofs) / counsellor; he fool’s cap (  fools cap) / fools-cap discover ( ) / discern contention. But ( ) / contention; but meaning ( ) / warning name () / badge Science () / science circumstance ( ) / circumstances me—we ( and proofs) / me! We kaisar ( ) / caisar “Nay, nay, my (  “Nay nay my) / “Nay, my mound () / mount regret that () / regret, that Count (  and proofs) / Counts crusade—If ( ) / crusade. If “This, much honoured (  “This much honourd) / “Thus much, honoured recovered—and (  and proofs) / recovered; and Yet () / yet sayst (  and proofs) / say’st Their ( ) / The occasioned (  occasiond) / should occasion long ( ) / loud impetuosity had ( ) / impetuosity only had pride () / banner suite ( ) / followers mound () / mount

  114.3

114.6 114.12 114.32 115.13 115.14 115.14 115.16 115.33 115.41 116.12 116.23 116.24 116.30 116.35 116.39 116.43 116.43 116.43 117.12 117.14 117.15 117.15 117.24 117.24 117.25 117.26 117.27 117.30 117.42 118.7 118.19 118.27 118.37 119.31 119.32 119.34 119.40 120.1 120.1 120.8 120.24 120.25 120.26 120.29 120.30 120.41 120.43 121.1 121.5

339

the gleam of a lion’s eye. (  derived) / the threatened grasp of a lion. The  reads ‘the gleam of a lion〈s〉’. Earlier in the sentence, Richard’s eye threatens the nobles, and this metaphor suggests the missing word. apparent ( and proofs) / remarkable England confronting ( ) / England raised from his sick-bed, and confronting Church ( ) / church all—Here ( ) / all. Here coil, because ( and proofs) / coil, forsooth, because hound.” (  and proofs) / hound!” sustained—this ( ) / sustained. This Oriflamme ( ) / oriflamme yielded.—I (proof correction) / yielded. I whipped ( whipd) / whipt There ( ) / Here Oriflamme ( ) / oriflamme still (proof correction) / yet heads crowns (proof correction) / heads these crowns Richard. “I (  and proofs) / Richard,—“I lions ( ) / Lion lilies (  and proofs) / Lilies be that which (  derived: be which) / be, which retired (8vo) / withdrew the ( and proofs) / this lions (  and proofs) / Lions There ( ) / Here banner ( and proofs) / Banner England. ( ) / England! dubbed. Stir () / dubbed—Stir insult. Sound (  insult Sound) / insult—Sound Doest ( ) / Dost head—I (  and proofs) / head. I the blame () / the greater blame sword—a (  and proofs) / sword. A Saint ( ) / St Kenneth (proof correction) / Sir Kenneth his—If (  and proofs) / his. If Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth forwards (  and proofs) / forward up your fiend—your (  feind) / up your up the ( and proofs) / up thy Unbend () / Unbind Kenneth ( ) / the Scot Kenneth (proof correction) / Sir Kenneth should ( ) / would eager ( ) / angry renderst ( ) / renderest dwarf’s ( and proofs) / creature’s thee—pardon ( ) / thee. Pardon platform. But ( platform But) / platform; but Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth intercept () / interrupt Kenneth’s (  Kenneths) / the knight’s

340 121.6 121.7 121.12 121.18 121.29 121.30 121.31

121.36 121.39 122.2 122.8 122.22 122.30 123.13 123.28 123.31 123.43 124.2 124.3 124.3 124.4 124.23 124.24 125.27 125.31 126.13 126.15 126.15 126.18 126.27 126.30 126.31 126.31 126.31 127.3 127.13 127.16

  it—it ( ) / it. It messenger. Yet ( ) / messenger—yet thinkst ( ) / think’st knowst ( ) / knowest over other ( ) / over all other Kenneth (proof correction) / Sir Kenneth E E W N : hands, while the dwarf called out in a tone of triumph, laughing aloud, and shaking his huge disproportioned head, “Now refuse my commands—now disobey my summons—now doubt that I am Arthur of Tintagel, who have right to command over all British chivalry.” [new paragraph] “In M S : hands while the dwarf calld out in a tone of triumph〈ant〉 laughing aloud and shaking his huge disproportiond head 〈with〉 “Now refuse my commands—now disobey my summons—now doubt that I am Arthur of Tintadgel, who have 〈write〉 mrighto to command over all British chivalry”—“In P R O O F S : hands, while the dwarf called out in a tone of triumph, laughing aloud, and shaking his huge disproportioned head, “Now refuse my commands—now disobey my summons—now doubt that I am Arthur of Tintagel, who have right to command over all British chivalry.” [new paragraph] “In E D 1: hands. [new paragraph] “In This passage was removed post-proof. token (  and proofs) / witness sayst ( ) / say’st moment ( ) / minute meet with ( and proofs) / pay homage to this our arblast ( ) / this arblast day by (8vo) / day, by [  missing] dwarf, impatiently (8vo) / dwarf impatiently There was probably a comma in Ed1 (there is a line-end space for it in several copies), but none has been seen. consequence (proofs) / consequences [  missing] watch—here (proofs) / watch.—Here [  missing] desert (8vo) / deserts [ missing] pace—for ( and proofs) / pace. For Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth time—in (  and proofs) / time; so in dwarf from ( ) / dwarf up from here () / there Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth room () / reason Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth knight (  night) / wight duty—it ( ) / duty. It her—for () / her; for The other was ( and proofs) / One of the other voices was then mortification (proof correction) / disappointment Berengaria, for (  [Berengaria for] and proofs) / Berengaria, (for loudest and ( ) / loudest, and tone was ( ) / tone, was Richard, the (  and proofs) / Richard,) the Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth out—I ( ) / out. I leasing—Can (  and proofs) / leasing. Can

  127.29 127.29 127.37 128.6 128.12 128.13 128.16 128.16 128.18 128.20 129.5 129.12 129.16 129.22 129.26 129.36 130.1 130.6 130.13 130.21 130.30 130.30 130.33 131.6 131.27 131.35 131.41 132.6 132.10 133.6 133.13 133.15

133.17 133.24 133.31 134.4 134.4 134.8 134.8 134.11 134.19 134.21 134.22 134.26 134.34 134.34 134.40 134.42 134.43

shouldst ( ) / should’st thy (Magnum) / thine Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth lady—for (  and proofs) / lady; for lady (  and proofs) / sweet one of yet greater alarm than she had hitherto evinced (  and proofs) / of alarm quite different from the agitation she had previously evinced evinced, “you (proofs) / evinced,—“you [  evinced “you] kinswoman—Say ( and proofs) / kinswoman!—Say earnest.” (  and proofs) / earnest!” Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth hither—I (  and proofs) / hither! I Nay, rise, (  [Nay rise] and proofs) / Rise, ownst ( ) / own’st perdu ( ) / perdue or had added () / or added consider—” ( ) / consider,” be more (proof correction) / be rather more Kenneth ( ) / the Scottish knight half hid ( ) / half-hid figure. But ( and proofs) / figure; but Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth knight—you (  and proofs) / knight!—you believing poor ( ) / believing my poor creep (  and proofs) / pass great route ( ) / path Kenneth (proof correction) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Mount ( ) / mount avarice ( ) / arrear Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth which some . . . scarce any ( and proofs) / which to some . . . scarce to any Scott added ‘to’ in proof, without recognising that the word is not required, and this led to the post-proof change of the next emendation. esteem (  and proofs) / appear Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth readers in () / readers of franca (Editorial) / Franca comes ( ) / come and the rose () / the rose having approached (  having approachd) / approaching Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth’s (  Kenneths) / the knight’s deportment, “the (  deportment “the) / deportment—“the the knight (  the Knight) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth receded () / acceded animal ( and proofs) / creature the Hakim ( ) / El Hakim Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth

341

342 135.1 135.6 135.7 135.15 135.25 135.26 135.26 135.31

135.36 135.36 135.38 135.41 136.1 136.4 136.8 136.13 136.16 136.37 136.39 136.41 137.2 137.8 137.14 137.25 137.26 137.26 137.42 137.42 137.43 138.2 138.9 138.11 138.19 139.18 139.23 139.36 139.36 139.39 140.32 140.33 140.40 141.6 141.25 141.28 141.28 141.32 141.35 141.36 141.36 141.36 141.36

  deserves—For () / deserves. For recover—I ( ) / recovers. I with—For ( and printed proof) / with. For Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / the knight it—Leave ( ) / it. Leave Hakim—Thou () / Hakim; thou Kenneth (Editorial) / Sir Kenneth The Ed1 reading is part of a speech-indicator added by the intermediaries, but at this point in the narrative Scott usually uses the simple ‘Kenneth’ in  : see Essay on the Text, 318. Ha () / How the Hakim ( ) / El Hakim fight—thou ( ) / fight.—Thou own—It (  and proofs) / own. It Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth me—Man (  and proofs) / me. Man know that ( ) / know, that control—Use ( and proofs) / control. Use Kenneth (Editorial) / Sir Kenneth See comment at 135.31 above. knewst ( ) / knew’st know ( ) / knew will ( ) / shall him have () / him, have of Kings ( ) / of kings worship—nay () / worship; nay Edith Plantagenet (proof correction) / Edith of Plantagenet sayst ( ) / say’st Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Edith Plantagenet (proof correction) / Edith of Plantagenet M ’ (  Mills) / M ’s p. 60. (Editorial) / p. 61. princes () / Princes the other women () / the women Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth alliance that ( , Magnum) / alliance, that the Hakim ( ) / El Hakim with Heaven () / to Heaven himself, he (  himself he) / himself to be, he had been (Editorial) / was anchoret ( ) / anchorite themselves—So ( and proofs) / themselves; so gratified that (  and proofs) / gratified, that wholly (proof correction) / totally he ( ) / El Hakim rousing () / rising doest (proof correction) / dost not?—The (proof correction) / not? The never () / neither be—there ( and proofs) / be. There What ( ) / Why doest (  and proofs) / dost there () / thus mute for?—speak (  mute for—speak) / mute? Speak

  141.37 141.38 141.40 141.41 142.1 142.1 142.2

142.8 142.9 142.19 142.20 142.21 142.25 142.27 142.38 142.40 142.41 142.42 143.1 143.5 143.12 143.17 143.24 143.26 144.2 144.3 144.5 144.8 144.9 144.9 144.12 144.18 144.29 144.32 144.36 144.37 144.38 144.43 145.1 145.3 145.4 145.5 145.8 145.12 145.22 145.24 145.25

343

king. Yet ( king Yet) / king—yet Lied! (proof correction) / Lied! dead ( ded) / cold endured—I ( and proofs) / endured.—I my (Editorial) / his It is Richard, not Kenneth, who has had a fever. be—the ( ) / be—The our enemy’s cowardice well known—Go (proofs and proof correction our enemy’s mcowardiceo well knows.—Go) / It cannot be! Go The   reads: ‘our enemies avarice well known Go’. In proof ‘avarice’ was omitted and a space left, and Scott supplied ‘cowardice’. whom see I () / whom do I see Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth camiscia ( and proof correction) / camescia right arm (  rightarm) / right-arm that (proof correction) / a on ( ) / upon thieves (ISet) / dogs hand—it ( ) / hand. It Said ( ) / said wert () / wast known better (proof correction) / known him better Kenneth (proof correction) / Sir Kenneth man—Coward ( ) / man. Coward Kenneth. [new paragraph] “Ha ( Kenneth [run on] “Ha) / Kenneth——[new paragraph] “Ha Kenneth ( ) / the Scot nothing doubting ( derived: nothing doubt) / making no doubt speak touches () / speak,” said Sir Kenneth, “touches thee.” (proofs) / thee!” Here ( ) / There sayest ( ) / say’st Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth “the Lady ( ) / “The Lady Edith”—— ( ) / Edith——” What . . . What ( ) / what . . . what Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth the name () / the very name was () / were interest!—What (proof correction) / interest! What What ( ) / what where Christian princes () / where princes Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth thee that (proofs) / thee, that thought and for an instant entertain ( ) / thought entertain The phrase ‘and for an instant’ is on the facing verso of the  and was inserted in the wrong sentence. Edith”—— ( , Magnum) / Edith——” her not—think ( ) / her not—and for an instant think See emendation to 145.3. Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth mind—try () / mind. Try woman ( ) / women Coop ( ) / coop life () / safe custody

344

 

145.25 own () / life 145.35 Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth 146.5 met with (Editorial) / met on the passage hither with Scott added ‘and I have met on the passage hither with’ on the proofs, not noticing that this ‘passage’ creates both repetition and a conflict of meaning with the last word of this sentence. 146.6 passage—He (proof correction) / passage. He 146.6 waits only without () / waits without 146.14 present ( ) / instant 146.19 on the youth ( ) / at the Scot 146.21 good ( ) / stout 146.27 father—my Ralph () / father. My Ralph 146.28 reach (proof correction) / be 146.35 myself—there ( and proofs) / myself. There 146.40 the well-mimicked cry ( the well mimickd cry) / the cry 146.42 eye (8vo) / eyes The   has no noun after ‘thine’. The printed proof has ‘them’ instead of ‘thine’, for which Ballantyne suggested ‘thine eyes’, but 8vo’s singular form agrees with ‘thine ear’. 147.7 angry even (  and proofs) / even angry 147.20 Queen Consort ( ) / Queen-Consort 147.27 practised, a (proofs) / practised a A space appears after ‘practised’ at the end of the page in Ed1 where a comma was probably set, but it has not registered on any copy examined. 147.30 to. [new paragraph] She () / to. She Scott indented the first line of the folio. 148.9 others—In ( ) / others. In 148.11 of paws () / of the paws 148.42 kirtle (  and proofs) / robe 149.9 anchoret ( ) / anchorite 149.11 mistress (  Mistress) / Majesty 149.19 chapel, but (proofs) / chapel; but 149.21 anchoret ( ) / anchorite 149.32 Edith () / she 150.5 interrupt () / intercept 150.31 hands ( ) / hand 150.33 ye ( ) / you 150.35 Seest () / See’st 150.43 lion in fury could ( ) / lion, in his fury, could 151.4 Doest ( ) / dost 151.5 What ( ) / what 151.7 kirtle (  and proofs) / robe 151.8 steel casket () / steel-casket 151.10 indignantly. “It (  indignantly “It) / indignantly; “it 151.19 her.” (  and proofs) / her. 151.20 dearest ( and proofs) / noble 151.22 dallying—If (  and proofs) / dallying. If 151.28 woman ( ) / women 151.29 officers and (  and proofs) / officers, and 151.38 depart— ( ) / depart! 152.9 dealst ( ) / deal’st 152.14 so,” answered (8vo) / so,’ answered 152.17 still ( ) / silent 152.17 said she () / she said

  152.18 152.22 152.23 152.24 152.34 152.36 152.42 153.1 153.16 153.17 153.19 153.21 153.22 153.25 153.30 153.39 153.40 154.4 154.7 154.19 154.32 154.34 155.1 155.6 155.6 155.12 155.19 156.2 156.9 156.10 156.12 156.15 156.18 156.20 156.23 156.24 156.30 157.3 157.13 157.19 157.20 157.31 157.39 157.40 158.2 158.5 158.10 158.11 158.21 158.23 158.36

345

you—or ( and proofs) / you; or you—but () / you; but death and life () / life and death death and life () / life and death shortly ( ) / scantly about, as at present, to () / about as at present to skin ( ) / shag was (  being was) / being Scott failed to delete the first word. ladies ( and proofs) / females coverings () / covering huge ( ) / large What ( ) / what not?— (8vo) / not— Richard’s lowly couch (  and proofs) / Richard’s couch averted () / wonted around ( ) / round waitst (proof correction) / wait’st child ( chilf) / wench fame ( ) / glory which () / that shouldst ( ) / should’st well?” ( ) / well,” it is () / ’tis knowst ( ) / know’st sayst ( ) / say’st hearest ( ) / hear’st camiscia, or loose robe— (  camiscia or loose robe—) / camescia— minion’s (  minions) / warrior’s life long (Editorial) / lifelong becomes ( ) / licenses But I am not ( ) / But I have already said, I am not even yourself ( ) / even you yourself and noble ( ) / and the noble his () / thy minion’s doest ( ) / dost the good () / a good saints. And () / saints—And execution, for the sake of Christendom and for his own. ( ) / execution. mighty ( ) / weighty thy present bloody ( ) / thy bloody Church ( ) / church crime—think (  and proofs) / crime. Think And ( ) / and he, as I (  he to as I) / he, too, as I Scott probably anticipated ‘to whom’. doest intercede () / dost entreat stopped (  stopd) / stopt for by Saint George I swear.” ( ) / for, by Saint George, I swear—” not (  and proofs) /    ground, “to look ( ) / ground,—“It is not for me to look importunities—this (  and proofs) / importunities! This effusions, afterwards called fits of the mother, in ( effusions

346 158.40 159.6 159.38 159.39 160.3 160.12 160.13 160.18 160.21 160.24 160.32 160.41 160.42 161.1 161.4 161.5 161.10 161.41 161.42 162.1 162.9 162.26 162.27 162.33 162.34 162.35 162.35 162.38 162.43 163.3

163.5 163.14 163.17 163.20 163.28 163.31 163.31 163.33 163.40 164.8 164.9 164.10 164.14 164.35 164.42 165.4 165.15 165.16

  afterwards calld fits of the mother in) / effusions, in attendance on () / attendance upon have that (proof correction) / have, that the Hakim ( ) / El Hakim live—I (  and proofs) / live. I wouldst ( ) / would’st desired so soon ( ) / desired as soon pavilion— ( and proofs) / pavilion!— Saint ( ) / St undertaking—No ( and proofs) / undertaking. No there is one () / this is a single men ( ) / man Great ( ) / great untimeously (proof correction) / untimely come betwixt (  derived: become betwixt) / become intercessor betwixt seekst ( ) / seekest will—And () / will. And owest thy () / owe their mayst ( ) / may’st am at present inefficient ( ) / am inefficient question—it ( ) / questions; it woman who () / woman, who thus that the ( ) / thus the the Hakim ( ) / El Hakim the Melec Ric ( ) / thee, Melec Ric such as never heard of his renown—shall (  such as never heard of his renown shall) / such—that never heard of thy renown, shall shall be ( ) / shall yet be his () / thy the Hakim ( ) / El Hakim infidel. Hakim ( and proofs) / infidel!—Hakim keeping. The ( keeping mThe . . . o) / keeping—the The last sentence of this paragraph and the beginning of the next are added on the facing verso. The intermediaries did not articulate them according to Scott’s instructions. wilt. Only () / wilt—only a mantle () / his mantle more. Is ( and proofs) / more.—Is rose ( ) / sprung up el ( ) / El canst () / couldst conveniently ( ) / consistently will ( ) / would richly—yet let him live—there (  and proofs) / richly. Yet let him live! there him, as (proofs) / him,—as Enter () / enter mayst ( ) / may’st thy (  derived: they) / my Peace of the Church ( ) / peace of the church Duke (  and proofs) / duke forwards (  and proofs) / forward Even in (  and proofs) / In Church ( ) / church

  165.31 165.31 165.36 165.41 165.43 166.5 166.10 166.12 166.33 166.36

166.37 166.40 166.41 167.11 167.11 167.13 167.14 167.20 167.21 167.23 167.24 167.25 167.26 167.26 167.27 167.36 168.2 168.9 168.12 168.16 168.25 168.35 169.1 169.7 169.9 169.18 169.19 169.19 169.20 169.25 169.33 169.33 169.36 170.13 170.13 170.14 170.18 170.21 170.23 170.27

thee—the () / thee!—the gleaming (  / glancing repeated ( ) / replied said () / interrupted command ( ) / commands Church (Editorial) / church Presume?” ( ) / Presume!” conveying () / carrying cause ( Cause) / advancement and the advancement of ( and proofs) / and of Scott’s deletion of ‘the advancement’ in the proofs was due to his using the same word to fill a gap; restoring ‘cause’ (see previous entry) removes the need for the second change. wiliest () / wisest unity among ( ) / unity asunder among manner. “But ( and proofs) / manner; “but delinquents’ () / delinquent’s their ( ) / his him (  and proofs) / whom this deed () / the deed Princes”— ( ) / Princes—” said ( and proofs) / interrupted matter—you (proofs) / matter. You as ( ) / than Austria, so ( ) / Austria, and so pass—I (  and proofs) / pass.—I however—I ( ) / however; I ordeal—How (  and proofs) / ordeal.—How onward ( ) / wild Richard the Lion-hearted shall ( ) / Richard, the lion-hearted, shall space () / span territory of thy people ( terri[end of line]tority of thy people) / knowledge of thy subjects not (  and proofs) / neither know nor Godfrey—I ( and proofs) / Godfrey. I Church (Editorial) / church an () / a deep this ( ) / these dotingly (  doatingly) / devotedly Church ( ) / church impeccable—I (  and proofs) / impeccable!—I Councils ( ) / councils Wherefore ( ) / wherefore raves ( ) / roars birth—But (  and proofs) / birth. But I (  and proofs) / I frame () / form canons (proofs) / Canons callst ( ) / call’st monks of the Rule (proofs) / Monks of the rule shouldst ( ) / should’st burning-glass (Editorial) / burning glass uninflamed () / uninfluenced fantastic ( ) / fanatic

347

348 171.16 171.26 171.27 171.28 171.41 172.7 172.13 173.22 173.33 174.8 174.16 174.29

174.32 174.34 174.35 174.35 174.36 174.38 174.42 175.19 175.20 175.20 175.21 175.37 175.38 175.41 175.41

176.20 176.25 176.35 176.36 176.37 177.6 177.8 177.26 177.35

  of spiritual safety (proof correction) / of safety sword? (  and proofs) / sword; trode (  and proofs) / trod glory? ( and proofs) / glory; All Hail ( and proof correction) / all hail regret () / regard purpose. So ( ) / purpose; so and separation (  and proofs) / and a separation quiet (  quiet〈ing〉) / quieting kinswoman, or a sister ( kinswoman or a sister) / kinswoman, ay, or sister prævalebit () / prevalebit In the hour when I landed, full of ardent hopes, and burning for avenging God’s cause on the infidels, had (  In the hour when I landed at [space] full of ardent hopes and burning for avenging Gods cause on the infidels) / The time hath been, that, had Scott wrote the beginning of a sentence on the facing verso, for which Ballantyne, in a note written above it, admits he cannot find a place. The beginning of the sentence that appeared in the proofs and Ed1 had been deleted by Scott in the  ; the new passage was probably intended to replace it. Yet ( and proofs) / yet one ( ) / I generous, who (  generous who) / generous,—who foe as ( ) / foe, as friend, whilst ( and proofs) / friend,—whilst them—Only ( and proofs) / them. Only sayest ( ) / say’st enemies, and various ( ) / enemies; various were circulated ( ) / being circulated pride and his undue () / pride, and undue the present accidental delay was ( and proofs) / the necessity of the present short pause was save Richard ( ) / save King Richard Lion’s-heart (8vo) / Lion’s heart comrades (  comerades) / crusaders comrades. Some brief words he desired to say, such was his address to the assembly, though . . . enterprize. The (  derived: comerades —“A few words” he desired to say msuch was his address to the assemblyo—though . . . enterprize.” The) / crusaders. [new paragraph] “Some brief words he desired to say,” such was his address to the assembly, “though . . . enterprize.” [new paragraph] The This is indirect speech, but Scott began with somewhat inconsistent speech marks, to which the intermediaries responded in contradictory ways in proofs and post-proof. Scott changed ‘A few’ to ‘Some brief’ in the proofs. Richard. “And ( ) / Richard; “and rose ( ) / arose say that, though (  and proofs) / say, though Church, he (  and proofs) / Church, that he insult to the ( ) / insult the this?—Austria () / this? Austria so—We (  and proofs) / so. We to ill (Editorial) / ill to power. But ( and proofs) / power; but

  177.42 178.19 178.25 178.26 178.29 178.34 178.39 179.7 179.18 179.32 180.1 180.4 180.4 180.12 180.12 180.18 180.21 180.23 180.25 180.35 181.9 181.10 181.19

181.19 181.21 181.22 181.23 183.4 183.37 183.41 184.6 184.8 184.19 184.25 184.42 185.1 185.5 185.11 185.38 185.42 186.3 186.5 186.15 186.15 186.21 186.24 186.24 186.34 186.35

349

as nothing ( ) / is nothing rash ( ) / rough end—for ( ) / end; for opened—I ( ) / opened. I should (  and proofs) / would people’s (8vo) / peoples [  as Ed1] but I myself ( ) / but myself strangers () / sovereigns conquest.” (  and proofs) / conquest!” Council—it spread (proofs;  council it spread) / Council, and spread present ( ) / proud Council ( ) / council up, apparently ( and proofs) / up, all apparently toils ( ) / wiles spider’s web () / spider’s-web knowst ( ) / know’st supply, yet Richard (  and proofs) / supply, Richard thoughtst ( ) / thought’st sayst ( ) / say’st Knowest ( ) / know’st mayst ( ) / may’st broken”— () / broken—” it,” said the Templar, “that (Magnum, following ISet addition) / it that See Essay on the Text, 313–14, for a discussion of this and the next 5 lines, in which the intermediaries have not followed the speech divisions indicated by the . mayst ( ) / may’st rage.” [new paragraph] “Ay ( rage”—“Aye) / rage—Ay thy ( ) / my Charegite—” [new paragraph] “I see,” said (  Charegite—” “I see” said) / Charegite,” said information (  and proofs) / intelligence couch—To ( ) / couch. To attended (  and proofs) / accompanied lawful (Magnum) / awful fairly reduced ( ) / reduced life—if (  and proofs) / life. If him who (  and proofs) / him, who which () / that sustain. But () / sustain; but complain—still (Editorial) / complain, still the whole interview ( ) / the interview privileged—I ( ) / privileged. I consign ( ) / assign justice—to ( ) / justice; to are one of ( ) / are of bonds () / hands heathen—hast (  and proofs) / heathen; hast waive () / wave thinkst ( ) / think’st sayest ( ) / say’st “Come, my fair ( ) / “My fair I never said you () / I said not you

350

 

186.38 this same love-gear ( ) / this love-gear 187.6 high opinion of (proof correction derived) / high of Scott’s addition in proof, ‘when you hold so high of a Scot’, clearly lacks a noun before ‘of a’. 187.10 mayst ( ) / may’st 187.11 never—” ( ) / never!” 187.11 Edith, “nor ( derived: Edith. “not) / Edith—“not 187.15 E’en ( ) / Even 187.20 camp, and (proofs) / camp; and 187.29 which weapon-show was ( and proofs) / which was 187.41 Joseline.” ( ) / Joseline.’ The   name is probably ‘Bracton’, which appears as ‘Breedon’ in the proofs, but was changed there by Scott to ‘Joseline’. 188.11 waist; in (proof correction) / waist. In 188.21 of Kings (  and proofs) / of kings 188.35 is as strong (Editorial) / is strong 188.36 Zablestan—also ( and proofs) / Zablestan; also 188.41 farewell, trusting ( farewell trusting) / farewell; trusting 188.42 truth; failing ( truth failing) / truth, failing 188.42 is for ( ) / is, for 189.11 franca (Editorial) / Franca 189.17 negation (proof correction) / negative 189.20 doest ( ) / dost 190.10 bestad ( ) / beset 190.19 were supposed likely ( ) / were likely 190.21 some contained () / some of them contained 191.16 tents of (  and proofs) / tents, of 191.36 figure and () / figure, and 191.37 birled (  birld) / twirled 192.8 sayst (  and proofs) / say’st 192.8 said (  and proofs) / exclaimed 192.27 knowst ( ) / know’st 192.34 paynim devil (proof correction) / paynim-devil 192.35 knowst ( ) / know’st 192.39 thee () / ye 193.4 Tomalin—“See () / Tomalin; “see 193.14 obstreperous as (  and proofs) / obstreperous, as 193.15 respect?—no observance?” (proof correction) / respect, no observance?”— 194.6 ghost. [new line] ( ) / ghost [new line] 194.9 narrated (  and proofs) / related 194.24 instantly, and then, as (proof correction) / instantly, as 194.31 himself as quietly as possible to () / himself, as quietly as possible, to 194.34 twelve ( and proofs) / ten 195.9 dashed to ( ) / dashed almost to 195.15 sentinels, to (proof correction sentinels to) / sentinels ye are, to 195.27 if ( ) / when 195.32 drumble ( ) / dally 196.9 negro, as . . . Ethiopian, and (  and proofs) / negro, (as . . . Ethiopian,) and 196.11 him. Neville ( ) / him. [new paragraph] Neville 196.14 King, “the (proof correction derived) / King—“the The   reads: ‘over—the wound’. Scott added the speech-marker in proof: he inserted a caret before the dash, and in the margin added

  196.28 196.31 196.35 196.35 196.38 197.4 197.11 197.23 197.30 197.39 198.6 198.12 198.23 198.27 198.27 198.29 198.34 199.3 199.14 199.19 199.21 199.24 199.32 200.14 200.32 201.3 201.15 202.1 202.3 202.17 202.21 202.22 202.29 202.40 203.4 203.7 203.7 203.8 203.12 203.13 203.17 203.23 203.26 203.40 204.1 204.4 204.7 204.17 204.18 204.31

‘said the King “’, by implication removing the dash, although he did not actually delete it. seems—Let ( ) / seems. Let warily—think ( and proofs) / warily. Think silk glove () / silk-glove steel gauntlet () / steel-gauntlet less, hollo less, and (  less hollow less and) / less and Wouldst ( ) / would’st wrong.” [new paragraph] The ( and proofs) / wrong. What say’st thou? ha!” [new paragraph] The lie () / be and”—— ( ) / and——” franca (Editorial) / Franca knowst ( ) / know’st we ( ) / ye princes ( and proofs) / Council of the Crusade source ( ) / author honour—ere ( ) / honour. Ere qualification—only (  and proofs) / qualification;—only thinkst ( ) / think’st words. “These (proofs) / words,—“These thinkst ( ) / think’st sun-burned (  sun-burnd) / sun-burnt that just when he has saved ( ) / that when he has just saved knowst ( ) / know’st seest ( ) / see’st seemed that a ( and proofs) / seemed as a Richard rather ( ) / Richard, rather were ( ) / was Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth the fairest () / them Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth their march ( ) / the march Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth really (  and proofs) / indeed stumble as ( and proofs) / stumble, as loathes ( ) / loaths horse (  and proofs) / steed foolish—Thou (  and proofs) / foolish. Thou sayst ( ) / say’st thee, as ( derived: me as) / one as The context requires ‘thee’, not ‘me’; the intermediaries noticed the error, but their ‘one’ obscures the referent. older rider.” (  and proofs) / older.” Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth nothing to ( ) / nothing wherewith to spirit ( ) / spirits by () / at Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth matters then stood ( matters than stood) / matters stood receiving in (  and proofs) / receiving, in exact (proof correction) / extract sympathy upon () / sympathy, upon one yet more impuissant than ( ) / one in stricter bondage than Prophet (Editorial) / prophet

351

352 204.39 204.40 205.20 205.26 205.41 205.42 206.7 206.13 206.15 206.19 206.22 206.23 206.23 206.25 206.27 206.29 206.31 206.34 206.40 206.42 207.8 207.11 207.12 207.12 207.15 207.28 208.6 208.8 208.11 208.18 208.22 208.40 209.1 209.13 209.20 209.21 209.33 209.36 209.37 209.38 210.17 210.18 210.27 210.35 210.39 211.4 211.17 211.18 211.20 211.28 211.33 211.38 211.43

  Prophet (Editorial) / prophet Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth narration ( ) / narrative Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth of perhaps a mile, a ( and proofs) / of a mile or more, a imperturbed ( ) / undisturbed Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth said he () / he said Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth binds ( ) / limits Prophet (Editorial) / prophet both branch and bough ( ) / both root, branch, and twig terms ( ) / times cloud ( ) / close rapine—Seest () / rapine.—See’st eastward () / eastern disappointed—I (  and proofs) / disappointed. I of danger which ( ) / of a danger, which Kenneth’s (  Kenneths) / Sir Kenneth’s Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth the Hakim ( ) / El Hakim Compel?” ( ) / Compel!” Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth mightst ( ) / might’st Kenneth (proof correction) / Sir Kenneth Prophet (Editorial) / prophet dried and pounded sheep’s (  dried & pounded sheeps) / dried sheep’s Prophet (Editorial) / prophet Prophet (Editorial) / prophet one twentieth ( ) / one-twentieth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth situation and (  and proofs) / situation, and sleep (  and proofs) / repose mayst ( ) / may’st not, though, to (  not though to) / not thou to Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth ordinance ( ) / hest a haik () / the haik Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth corpse as (  and proofs) / corpse, as changed (  and proofs) / different a pavilion of silk ( and proofs) / a silken pavilion an unheeding () / a constant cooled in snow (  coold in snow) / cold as snow professions ( and proofs) / profession courage made ( ) / courage, made Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth This time, however, his (  This time however his) / But this time his Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth

  212.6 212.6 212.11 212.13 212.16 212.21 212.30

213.9 213.13 213.16 213.19 213.23 213.24 213.30 213.30 213.31 213.32 213.41 213.41 214.6 214.9 214.12 214.23 214.25 214.36 214.39 215.4 215.7 215.10 215.16 215.18 215.20 215.21 215.25 215.26 215.33 215.35 215.41 215.42 216.3 216.13 216.14 216.20 216.22 216.27 216.31 216.35 216.37 216.40

353

circumlocution, “be (  circumlocution “be) / circumlocution,—“be knowst (  and proofs) / knowest Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth apparent ( derived: appeard) / approved them—and ( ) / them; and hair which was now . . . beard, announced (, proofs and proof correction) / hair, (now . . . beard,) announced The   reads: ‘hair which was now limited to a well 〈beard〉 trimmd announced’. The proofs read: ‘hair, which was now limited to a welltrimmed [space], announced’; Scott filled the space with ‘beard’. There was a revise, and the further changes were made post-revise. Prophet ( ) / prophet thinkst ( ) / think’st was, must (ISet) / was must Prophet (Editorial) / prophet Magian ( ) / magician Zacoum ( ) / Yacoum If (  and proofs) / If Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth and must I not go ( ) / and rather must I not go wherever ( ) / where-ever An end-of-line hyphen led to the duplicated ‘e’. brave (  and proofs) / noble Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth blissful ( and proofs) / blessed Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth me?” ( ) / me!” Prophet (Editorial) / prophet Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth favoured (  favourd) / forward Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth gleaming ( ) / glancing Kenneth ( ) / the Scottish knight would, were my hands loose, maintain (8vo) / would maintain and withdrew (proof correction) / so far as to withdraw Prophet (Editorial) / prophet doest ( ) / dost termst (proof correction) / term’st Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth But thy (  and proofs) / Well. Thy are ( and proofs) / are mode () / method knowst ( ) / know’st cured must () / cured, must Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth life, as he (proof correction) / life, who, as he billow, and catches (proof correction) / billow, catches Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth lackst ( ) / lackest stoodst ( and proofs) / stood’st stopped (  stopd) / stopt Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth think it all ( ) / regard it as in front () / in the front

354

 

217.8 infidel—I () / infidel. I 217.9 both—take (  and proofs) / both. Take 217.21 attendant—thy patient—with ( attendant—thy patient with) / attendant, thy patient, with 217.22 who () / that 217.24 familiar—But (proof correction) / familiar. But 217.35 tongues (proof correction) / tongue 217.40 Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth 217.42 Edith to () / Edith, to 218.2 Medina (Editorial) / Mecca 218.14 mayst ( ) / may’st 219.28 pagan ( ) / Pagan 219.42 crimson silk ( ) / crimson-silk 220.27 host () / army 220.39 placid () / pleased 220.40 successively ( ) / now 221.3 pass—a (  and proofs) / pass. A 221.4 over-weening. Lo (  and proofs) / over-weening.—Lo 221.7 him—by ( and proofs) / him. By 221.8 alongst ( and proofs) / along 221.20 Amen ( ) / amen 222.12 diamonds seemed () / diamonds, seemed 222.17 authority ( and proofs) / predominancy 222.36 forwards (  and proofs) / forward 222.43 George that he () / George he 223.9 their ( ) / other 223.10 hound—He (  and proofs) / hound! He 223.10 devoir ( ) / duty 223.12 then, Conrade (  then Conrade) / thou Conrade 223.12 called ( call) / Earl 223.14 superior ( ) / Syrian 223.15 vexation and shame and ( ) / vexation, and shame, and 223.30 England.” ( ) / England?” 223.36 doest ( ) / dost 223.38 wouldst ( ) / would’st 224.15 incident () / accident 224.20 abroad ( ) / about 224.26 Council (Editorial) / council 224.31 Council-chamber ( ) / council-chamber 224.36 Council (Editorial) / council 225.31 murder—the (  and proofs) / murder. The 225.43 such ( ) / rude 226.3 himself—But ( ) / himself. But 226.4 glove—We ( ) / glove—we 226.18 pagans ( ) / Pagans 226.24 hand—Mine ( ) / hand. Mine 226.24 stead—A ( ) / stead. A 226.36 gentleman, and (proofs) / gentleman; and 227.1 such—and (  and proofs) / such; and 227.6 quarrel () / matter 227.12 out, for (proofs) / out; for 227.18 then () / thus 227.26 matter (  and proofs) / thing 227.35 doest ( ) / dost 228.3 sat heavy (proofs) / sat so heavy

  228.5 228.9 228.16 228.27 228.32 228.35 229.10 229.11 229.19 229.39 229.40 230.2 230.16 230.20 230.30

230.31 230.32 230.37 230.37 230.38 231.7 231.7 231.10 231.17 231.24 231.29 231.32 231.32 232.6 232.9 232.11 232.12 232.12 232.23 232.31 232.33 232.35 232.41 233.3 233.3 233.9 233.12 233.20 233.35 234.16

355

And ( ) / and meanst ( ) / meanest friends.” (  and proofs) / friends!” Nierenstein ( ) / nierenstein Council (Editorial) / council counsels (8vo) / councils Nierenstein ( ) / nierenstein mayst ( ) / may’st Nierenstein ( ) / nierenstein this—thou () / this. Thou letter requiring () / letter, requiring mayst ( ) / might’st Long-Sword (Editorial) / Longsword it—with (  and proofs) / it; with power enough to make the well nigh dumb speak (  derived) / power enough well nigh to make the dumb speak Scott wrote ‘well night〈s〉’ on the facing verso, but there is no caret in the main text to indicate where it should be placed. The only alteration on the top half of the folio is a deletion immediately before ‘dumb’, and it is probable that Scott wanted the phrase to be placed there. eye have wrought? ( derived: eye wrought—) / eye work upon such a subject! slave—thou () / slave. Thou shouldst ( ) / should’st her whom ( ) / her, whom behold should ( ) / behold, should as a (proof correction) / as on a slave—Wert (proof correction) / slave. Wert proudly erect, looked (proof correction) / proudly, and looked mayst ( ) / may’st Richard, yet (proofs) / Richard; yet him. Roswal (  and proofs) / him.—Roswal despaired to ( ) / despaired ever to again? And (  again. And) / again?—And kinswoman—I ( ) / kinswoman! I Cross—I ( ) / Cross! I shield—I ( ) / shield. I this—he ( ) / this! He me—Yet ( ) / me. Yet annunciation ( ) / communication like the outward side of the bow of Cupid ( ) / like the bow of a Cupid little here to ( ) / little to negro (proof correction negroe) / Negro Soldan.” (  and proofs) / Soldan!” “Escaped?” repeated ( and proofs) / “Escaped?”—repeated mayst ( ) / may’st they say ( ) / they may say Neville ( ) / De Neville the seeming Nubian ( and proofs) / the Nubian Ballantyne deleted ‘seeming’ on the second surviving proof, but the deletion is not necessary. attentively—then (proof correction) / attentively, then mute () / so

356 234.17 234.23 234.24 234.26 234.29 234.33 234.34 234.34 234.35 234.35 235.10 235.11 235.23 235.23 235.25 235.28 235.29 235.39 236.27 236.27 236.27 236.37 236.39 237.17 237.20 237.21 238.1 238.15 238.18

238.21 238.24 238.27 238.39 239.3 239.7 239.32 239.34 239.35 239.36 240.10 240.12 240.20 240.29 241.9 241.11 241.34 241.36 242.10 242.42 242.44 243.4

  who wronged ( ) / who have wronged What? ( ) / What! mayst ( ) / may’st me. (  and proofs) / me? these () / they idea, “that ( idea “that) / idea—“that speech—thou ( ) / speech? Thou head—be (  and proofs) / head. Be obstinacy—I () / obstinacy, I further ( ) / farther Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth off, thou (proofs) / off! thou transmutation—he ( and proofs) / transmutation! He zecchins () / zechins once the first () / ever esteemed religion—But () / religion! But hound—Tell ( ) / hound. Tell prostrations () / prostration Vaux, (proofs) / Vaux! Gills, (proofs) / Gills! hand () / head generous as (  and proofs) / generous, as one to (  and proofs) / one, to back. And (  and proofs) / back.—And canst ( ) / can’st wouldst ( ) / would’st deranged ( ) / damaged Science () / science from such an ill-conditioned brute as thou art, one should ever look for more kicks than compliments ( and proofs) / and an ill-conditioned animal thou art Ballantyne objected on the proofs to the vulgarity of the language here, and Scott altered his text. See Essay on the Text, 301. mayst ( ) / may’st minstrelsy. Bid ( minstrelsy Bid) / minstrelsy—Bid the seeming Nubian () / the Nubian tent. “A ( ) / tent.—“A canst ( ) / can’st other the better the ( ) / other the your (  youre) / the so”—— ( ) / so——” tone, “not ( tone not) / tone—“not him”—and ( ) / him—“and mayst ( ) / may’st merits ( ) / worth England. But ( and proofs) / England; but life. “Sing ( and proof correction) / life.—“Sing tiresome () / wearisome follow express ( ) / follow, express gulph () / gulf high ( ) / hie nor have I had ( derived: nor having I had) / and not having had laughst ( ) / laugh’st pupil—But (  and proofs) / pupil; but lay, but (proofs) / lay; but

 

357

243.17 bound (Magnum) / boune Scott deleted ‘disrobed’ in proof, but the new word is smudged. 243.37 gulph ( and proofs) / gulf 245.18 intimate () / insinuate 245.33 Church ( ) / church 245.40 Doest (  and proofs) / Dost 246.16 fair ( fai) / free 247.6 success were () / success, were 247.14 Christendom. Whereas ( Christendom Whereas) / Christendom; whereas 247.14 Whereas, fool that I am, I (proofs) / whereas,—fool that I am!—I 247.17 King that () / King, that 248.10 provided for (  derived: for provided) / to provide 248.32 anticipation ( ) / anticipations 249.19 hawks upon (  and proofs) / vultures on 249.24 bird when () / bird, when 249.24 wind, and disappeared ( wind, and disappeard) / wind and disappears 249.28 cymbals—Get ( and proofs) / cymbals. Get 250.6 where ( ) / when 250.9 by its solitary ( ) / by solitary 250.16 were what () / were, what 250.23 those ( ) / their 250.29 manœuvre hid ( [manoeuvre hid] and proofs) / manœuvre, hid 250.36 flank ( ) / flanks 250.39 alternately seen (Editorial) / seen alternately 251.2 instantly (  and proofs) / loudly 251.26 suite ( ) / suit 251.32 Richard’s little troop (  and proofs) / Richard’s troop 251.42 their ( ) / the 252.13 pantaloons (  and proofs) / wide Eastern trowsers See Essay on the Text, 301. 252.13 with (  and proofs) / wearing 252.16 poets “the sea of light” ( and proofs) / poets, the Sea of Light 252.24 reined (  reind) / rode 253.18 Seest () / See’st 254.12 metal and () / metal, and 254.15 honour led ( ) / honour, led 254.40 infirmity ( ) / inferiority 255.5 tucking upon ( ) / tucking up 255.7 exercise and diet had () / exercise had 255.12 armourers (  and proofs) / armourer 255.15 study ( ) / steady 255.32 sleight ( ) / slight 256.5 said Saladin ( and proofs) / answered the Soldan 256.6 dervise (Editorial) / dervisch 256.10 the Soldan (  and proofs) / Saladin 256.14 Richard, probably (  and proofs) / Richard, (probably 256.15 Nubian, “let ( and proofs) / Nubian,) “let 256.22 had () / have 256.37 I ( and proofs) / myself 257.1 permission (ISet) / leave 257.9 monarch ( ) / Monarch 257.12 adherents () / attendants 257.31 bad () / mad

358

 

258.27 now . . . noble ( ) / never . . . nobler 258.33 with this amphibious republic and we will lose () / with the amphibious republic, to lose 258.42 Desert shall ( ) / Desert, shall 259.16 bear (  and proof correction) / beat 259.17 unnaturally shrill ( ) / shrill unnatural 259.22 forwards (  and proofs) / forward 259.28 spoke secretly ( ) / spoke for some time secretly 259.29 [new paragraph] “Are ( ) / [new paragraph] At length, “Are 259.41 shame () / stain 260.11 with a fan ( ) / without fear 260.12 wouldst ( ) / would’st 260.28 choice must (proof correction) / choice,” she said proudly, “must 261.11 place one (proof correction place 〈at〉 one) / place at one 262.4 seemed now ( seemd now) / were certainly 262.5 impatience that () / impatience, that 262.12 their pavilion ( ) / the pavilion 262.18 willing ( ) / curious 262.20 sex called () / sex, called 262.20 from the Queen () / from Queen 262.21 Queen (  and proofs) / royal fair 262.28 Duke ( ) / Arch-Duke 262.29 had an () / had rather an 262.39 Grand Master ( ) / Templar 263.3 Lord Marquis ( ) / Marquis 263.38 Conrade ( ) / Lord Marquis 264.3 “rouse () / ‘rouse 264.7 affair—the ( ) / affair. The 264.36 in complete silence (proofs;  in completely silence) / in silence 265.14 forwards (  and proofs) / forward 265.35 shouldst ( ) / should’st 266.2 from ( ) / at 266.13 each knight his (proof correction) / each his 266.26 molten iron (  and 8vo) / molten-iron 266.37 warrior, for (proofs) / warrior; for 266.39 Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth 267.5 Kenneth ( ) / Sir Kenneth 267.7 unlaced () / unclosed 267.11 swooned (  swoond) / revived 267.16 look,” (8vo) / look,’ 267.21 body—to (  and proofs) / body! To 267.27 prince () / Prince 267.35 prithee () / pray thee 267.36 joyous (  joius) / joyful 268.14 Paradise—And (proof correction) / Paradise. And 268.16 ‘Her . . . it?’ (Magnum) / Her . . . it? 268.18 burned (  burnd) / burnt 268.20 wisely turn ( ) / wisely to turn 268.24 further ( ) / farther 268.41 William (Editorial) / Thomas See Explanatory Note. 268.41 Long-Sword, the King’s natural brother, and (  LongSword the Kings natural brother and) / Longsword, and 269.4 worth ( ) / favour 269.10 Long-Sword’s (Editorial) / Longsword’s

  269.19 269.24 270.10 270.13 270.17 270.19 270.20 270.33 270.35 270.38 270.38 271.1 271.2 271.2 271.3 271.5 271.10 271.13 271.16 271.33 271.36 271.38 272.5 272.7 272.8 272.9 273.2 273.4 273.15 273.38 273.41 274.4 274.7 274.17 274.22 274.29 274.34 274.40 275.4 275.5

275.18 275.29 275.31 275.34 276.4 276.14 276.33 277.1

359

you unknown, save (proofs) / you, unknown save removed ( ) / received limb? ( ) / limb! my ( ) / his learned ( learnd) / learnt long ( ) / being Knights against ( ) / Knights, against flint that () / flint, that cheeks ( ) / cheek confusion under ( ) / confusion, under cousin’s (  [cousins] and proofs) / kinsman’s bands ( ) / bonds forwards (  and proofs) / forward nought ( ) / nothing men’s (  mens) / man’s stars that ( ) / stars, that prince () / Prince Soldan ( ) / Saladin what (proof correction) / that further ( ) / farther adventurer, but it (  and proofs) / adventurer. It passion which () / passion to which various colours. Far (  and proofs) / splendour; far manners, lambs ( and proofs) / manners, with all the other niceties of Eastern cookery. Lambs pilaus, which displayed the variety of Eastern cookery and were ( and proofs) / pilaus, were gold, silver, and () / gold, and silver, and How now?—what ( ) / How now! what terribly ( ) / fearfully hapless ( ) / helpless nought ( ) / not Wouldst ( ) / Would’st wouldst ( ) / would’st with some ( ) / with pleasure and some But (  and proofs) / but spouted ( ) / spurted treacheries ( ) / treasons occasion, had I not brought (8vo) / occasion, but that I brought had been ( ) / had both been amounted only to ( ) / amounted to curiosity, with (proof correction) / curiosity, or, as he partly confessed, with The   ‘curiosity or perhaps as he conceived with’ was printed in the proofs. Ballantyne queried the meaning and Scott deleted ‘perhaps . . . conceived’. The clause ‘as he partly confessed’ was added post-proof. him. ( ) / him? murtherer ( ) / murderer silence. “If ( silence—“If) / silence:— [new paragraph] “If Wherefore ( ) / wherefore felt the (  felt 〈that〉 the) / felt that the and weapons ( ) / and his weapons unless a worthier () / unless worthier were tempting ( ) / were a tempting

360 277.15 277.19 277.21 277.32 277.35 277.37

  of my ( ) / in my Richard (  and proofs) / Cœur de Lion never ( ) / no more to Edith () / by Edith celerity to ( ) / celebrity Simon (ISet) / Mungo

END-OF-LINE HYPHENS

All end-of-line hyphens in the present text are soft unless included in the list below. The hyphens listed are hard and should be retained when quoting. 4.9 13.26 14.37 17.34 18.23 18.37 20.24 39.20 44.32 45.26 46.16 58.10 61.11 69.14 70.33 79.2 98.32 99.20 103.13 103.17 111.12 117.7 119.4 122.38 123.2 126.37 146.1

water-spouts well-proportioned good-humoured ten-thousand-fold robber-tribes resting-place war-horse bed-side snow-white rose-bud well-proportioned broad-chested mouth-filling true-hearted harsh-featured pouncet-box tilt-yard minne-singers ill-timed Arch-Duke noon-day half-willing high-souled sand-glass rose-buds ear-witness kindly-natured

148.21 161.33 162.24 169.18 170.21 177.20 181.24 182.6 190.31 202.18 204.26 209.28 212.43 221.4 221.16 222.7 226.2 229.18 235.25 238.14 242.28 246.12 250.14 250.29 252.7 263.23 264.12

361

sharp-sighted a-many conscience-keeper self-sufficient burning-glass smooth-tongued self-willed bower-woman steel-plating bow-shot tale-teller wine-cup sumpter-camels over-weening spruch-sprecher men-at-arms double-faced spruch-sprecher dust-kissing guild-brother new-fangled pre-eminently tent-poles palm-trees body-guard soul-murderer tilt-yard

HISTORICAL NOTE

Full details of works referred to by short titles in the Note can be found at the head of the Explanatory Notes, 379–80. Historical Context. News of the defeat of western forces by Saladin at the battle of Hattin on 4 July 1187, and the subsequent fall of Jerusalem on 2 October in the same year, shocked Europe to the core, as it had been thought that the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem and the other conquests that had resulted from the First Crusade (1096–99) were firmly established. Louise and Jonathan Riley-Smith summarise well the momentous consequence of those events: The crusading movement is often treated as an eleventh- and twelfth-century phenomenon that went into rapid decline in the thirteenth. But in fact no period can equal the activity of the 87 years from 1187 to 1274, in almost every one of which a crusade was being waged somewhere. For most of the twelfth century westerners had been complacent about the Holy Land, but events in 1187 changed that. On 4 July in the battle of Hattin Saladin annihilated the largest army ever put into the field by the Latins and he was then able to storm through Palestine. Jerusalem fell to him on 2 October and by 1189 all that was left of the kingdom of Jerusalem was the port of Tyre.1 The events of 1187 which led to the Third Crusade were not entirely unforeseen. Already in 1185, the Patriarch of Jerusalem and the Grand Masters of the two Military Orders (see notes to 60.12 and 60.12–13) had gone to Europe to seek support from the Pope and the more powerful kings. This had not been forthcoming, but immediately after the fall of Jerusalem two years later Pope Gregory VIII, in the course of his two-month pontificate, called for a further Crusade, and initiated the preaching that encouraged kings and soldiers to join up. Despite early enthusiasm, it took some time for the movement to gain momentum. Richard, the eldest surviving son of Henry II of England, was the first prince to take the cross, in 1187, but Henry himself and Philip Augustus of France were more cautious. Besides, there were local political difficulties, both between father and son, and between the Angevin realm of Henry (who was not only king of England but of most of western France except Brittany), and the French realm of Philip Augustus. Henry II’s death in July 1189 left Richard to settle his differences with Philip, which were patched up at a meeting at Vézelay on 4 July 1190. Meanwhile Frederick Barbarossa, the Holy Roman Emperor, had set out for the Holy Land, but died on his way there in June 1190. 362

  363 Some events that do not figure in Scott’s narrative have a direct bearing on the intrigues and animosities that disfigure the crusading cause in the novel. In Palestine, Guy de Lusignan (c. 1150–94) had succeeded to the throne of Jerusalem by reason of his marriage to Sibylla, who was both the sister of King Baldwin IV who had died childless in 1185 and the mother by an earlier marriage (to William, brother of Conrad of Montferrat) of the child-king Baldwin V, who had also died, in 1186, probably by poisoning. Guy had been captured by Saladin after Hattin, but was later released, and, in defiance of the terms of his release, had begun a siege of Acre in 1190 which ran on well into 1191 without success. Neither side could get the upper hand. Soon after Hattin in 1187 Conrad of Montferrat (c. 1145–92) had arrived in the Holy Land and taken an active role in the ongoing warfare by defending Tyre against the Muslims, which led to Saladin calling off his siege of that city in January 1188. Conrad, a bit of an adventurer, was making his mark. Later, the death from fever of Sibylla and her two daughters in the autumn of 1190 led to some convoluted succession politics in relation to Jerusalem. Conrad, despite himself having (it was believed) a living wife, sought to marry Isabella, sister of both Sibylla and the late Baldwin IV, because she was now the route to the throne. His proposed marriage to the sister of his own brother’s late wife did not seem to pose an obstacle to the religious authorities. She was abducted, persuaded by her mother that her existing marriage to Onfroy IV de Toron should be annulled, and then married to Conrad on 24 November 1190. Because Guy was engaged in the siege of Acre, and Conrad in that at Tyre, there was no opportunity for the rival claimants to the throne to attempt to settle the matter. Five months later Philip Augustus, when he arrived in Palestine in April 1191, endorsed Conrad’s claim. Philip and Richard had met at Messina in Sicily in March 1191 and signed treaties governing their land-claims in France and Normandy as well as matters to do with the succession to both thrones in the event of either of them not surviving the Crusade. Philip also reluctantly agreed to the termination of the long betrothal between his sister Alice and Richard, and left Sicily for Palestine on 30 March. Modern historians follow several of their medieval predecessors in believing that, quite apart from the territorial friction between the two monarchs, it was Richard’s rejection of Alice that set the seal on the hostile relationship between them. Richard’s aim was to marry Berengaria of Navarre for strategic reasons (Navarre being the kingdom to the south of Aquitaine), and only hours after the departure of Philip, Richard’s mother, the elderly Eleanor of Aquitaine, arrived in Messina, bringing Berengaria in her train. On 10 April Richard’s fleet set off for Cyprus, with Berengaria (accompanied by Richard’s sister Joan) travelling separately. The ships were scattered by a storm, and while Richard waited first at Crete and then Rhodes for the fleet to gather, Berengaria’s ship arrived off Cyprus on 24 April, where it was threatened by its ruler,

364   Isaac Comnenus, the self-appointed King of Cyprus who had rebelled against the Byzantine Emperor. When Richard caught up, on 6 May, he demanded that Comnenus return prisoners and plunder from two wrecked crusader ships; Comnenus refused, and so Richard set about the conquest of the island, with the support of Guy de Lusignan and his brother Geoffrey who had arrived from the Holy Land, seeking Richard’s support against Philip in the matter of the throne of Jerusalem. On 12 May Richard and Berengaria were married and Berengaria crowned Queen of England at Limassol. The conquest of the rest of the island took less than a month. It is not known whether Richard had planned the conquest of Cyprus, but it proved to be a strategic Christian stronghold until it fell to the Turks in 1571. The Third Crusade did not achieve its aims: the Crusaders did not recapture Jerusalem and the Latin Kingdom was severely truncated, to a coastal strip around Tyre. The most positive view is that of Sidney Painter: ‘the Third Crusade reëstablished the kingdom of Jerusalem as a political and military power. Actually it did more—it protected the remnants of the kingdom from Saladin while he was at the height of his power.’2 But A. A. Vasiliev, taking a wider view, concludes severely that ‘The crusade accomplished nothing’.3 Scott in The Talisman seems closer to Vasiliev than Painter: the weaknesses of the Christian leaders are mercilessly exposed, and their disunity was fatal to their enterprise. Saladin, on the other hand, is a figure possessed of great military and moral assurance. Chronology. The fictional events of the novel take place in the months after Richard’s arrival at Acre in the Holy Land on 8 June 1191. The action occupies only two or three weeks.4 The incessant heat suggests that it is summer, but the historical events mentioned in the novel do not suggest a specific three weeks. Richard’s sickness occurred at Acre very shortly after his arrival. Acre fell to the Crusaders on 12 July 1191. On 22 August Richard left Acre and on 9 September he reached Jaffa, between Acre and Ascalon (as at 54.27). In the novel Richard is (a) sick, (b) stationed between Acre and Ascalon (probably at Jaffa), and (c) hoping to liberate Jerusalem. In the novel Philip is still in the Holy Land, but he embarked for his return to Europe on 3 August. The action takes place during a temporary truce of thirty days agreed by the Crusading council with Saladin (55.43), but this is unknown to history: after his arrival at Jaffa on 9 September 1191 Richard had tried to make arrangements for a truce, but nothing came of it, and the Treaty of Ramla, lasting three years and eight months, under which Jerusalem was to remain under Muslim control with Christian pilgrims allowed access to the holy places, was not concluded until 2 September 1192. It will be evident that it is impossible to reconcile the fiction with the historical dates, and one is not meant to do so, but the year is clear and the heat suggests that Scott imagines the action taking place over a three-week period in July, August or September 1191.

  365 Scott’s sources. Five of the leading elements in The Talisman have specific and readily identifiable sources. The first of these major features is a story, the disguised Saladin’s account of the origin of the Kurds at 27–28. Most of the main elements of that story are present in the entry (translated in endnote 5 below) for ‘Dhoak’ or ‘Zohak’ in d’Herbelot’s Bibliotheque Orientale (1.592–93): Dhohak, ou, Zohak. Nom du cinquième Roy de la première Dynastie des Rois de Perse, appellée des Pischdadiens. Ce Prince très-fameux parmi les Orientaux à cause de sa cruauté, étoit . . . de la Lignée de Siamek fils de Caïumarrath, premier Roy de la même Race des Pischdadiens, ou fils d’une Sœur de Giamschid son predecesseur. . . . Ce Prince fut regardé par ses sujets, comme un Tyran abominable, tant à cause du meurtre qu’il avoit commis en la personne de son predecesseur dont il avoit usurpé l’Etat, que de son gouvernement injuste & violent, & des nouveaux supplices qu’il inventa, tels que furent ceux de faire écorcher vifs, & d’attacher en croix, ceux qu’il destinoit à la mort. La cruauté de Dhohak alla bien plus avant, lorsqu’il se sentit devoré par deux chancres qui luy vinrent aux deux épaules, ulceres, que les Persans appellent, deux Serpens, d’où ils ont pris lieu de donner à ce Prince, le surnom de Mar, c. a. Serpent. La cause de cette maladie est rapportée dans le Caherman Nameh, d’une manière fabuleuse. Car, le Diable, dit cet Auteur, s’étant presenté un jour à son service, après y avoir demeuré plusieurs années à son gré, ne luy demanda pour toute recompense, que de luy baiser les épaules. Cette grace luy ayant été accordé, deux Serpens s’y attacherent incontinent, & se nourrirent de sa propre chair. Le Demon, après affligé Dhohak de ce mal, luy enseigna un remede Diabolique pour l’addoucir. C’étoit, d’y faire appliquer tous les jours la cervelle de deux hommes que l’on faisoit mourir à cet effet. Après que l’on eut vuidé les prisons des criminels, il fallut se jetter sur les innocens, & l’on en enleva de tous côtez & de tous états, que l’on enfermoit dans un lieu destiné à cette boucherie. Il arriva, que les enfans d’un Forgeron d’Ispahan, nommé Gas, furent pris. Le Pere animé par cette violence, cria aussi-tost au secours, puis transporté de fureur, courut par la Ville, & portant son tablier de cuir attaché au bout d’une perche, en guise d’étendart, il assembla en peu de temps tous ceux que la cruauté du Tyran avoit irritez. Ces soûlevez allerent aussi-tost aux prisons pour délivrer ceux que l’on y gardoit, & ayant grossi leur Troupe d’un grand nombre de ces miserables, il se fit bien-tost une armée de gens tous également portez à la vangeance. Gas, qui en étoit le Général, auroit pû en devenir le Prince; mais, sa modestie le porta à chercher dans le Sang Royal, un sujet digne de porter la Couronne de Perse.

  On trouva Feridoun qui vivoit dans une retraite qu’il avoit choisie, tant pour éviter la fureur du Tyran, que pour y vacquer plus librement aux exercices de l’esprit. Il fust aussi-tost acclamé Roy par tout le Peuple, & s’étant mis à leur teste, il poussa Dhohak si vivement, qu’il le força d’abandonner la Perse, & de se refugier en Syrie. Mais, il ne trouva pas plus de sûreté en ce Pays-là. Car, Feridoun, qui le poursuivoit, l’eut enfin entre ses mains, & le confina dans une des grottes effroyables de la Montagne de Damavend. Après une expedition si heureuse, Gas couronna Feridoun de sa propre main, & ce Prince conserva l’étendart de Gas, pour memoire de son zele & de sa valeur. Khondemir, parlant de ces gens que l’on gardoit pour en tirer la cervelle, unique remede des douleurs que Dhohak souffroit de ses deux ulceres, ajoûte, que ceux qui avoient la charge de ces malhereuses Victimes, émus de compassion, en laissoient échaper plusieurs, lesquels se sauvoient dans les Pays les plus sauvages, pour n’être jamais plus reconnus dans leur Pays, & leurs Liberateurs employoient la cervelle des moutons pour suppléer à celles des hommes qui leur manquoient. Les pauvres Fugitifs qui se bannissoient ainsi, s’attroupant en divers endroits reculez de l’Asie, formerent enfin des Nations particulières, & telle est la première origine des Curdes, selon cet Historien.5 Scott characteristically elaborates his source story by adding the sage Mithrasp and his seven daughters, setting up a recurring sevenfold patterning which leads into the origin of ‘the seven tribes of the Kurdmans’. The second of the novel’s key features attributable to a particular source is the incident in Chapter 11 involving the tearing down of Richard’s standard by Leopold. It is prompted by, rather than literally taken from, the Anglo-Norman romance Richard Cœur de Lyon. Scott had read George Ellis’s summary, laced with liberal quotations, in his Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances.6 Ellis also gave him a full transcription from the manuscript in Caius College, Cambridge (CLA, 103). Scott also owned a complete printed version edited by his own assistant Henry Weber in the second volume of his Metrical Romances of the Thirteenth, Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, where it is called Richard Coer de Lyon; it is from this version that the following passage comes. 366

Fro thennes to Chaloyn they wente, And fonde the walles al to-rente. Large and fayr was that cyté; Kyng Richard theroff had pyté. He besought the lordes alle, Off the cyté to make the walle; And the lordes everilkon, Grauntyd hym hys asking anon, Save the duke of Ostryke; Kyng Richard he thoughte to beswyke.

 

367

Kyng Richard gan to travayle, Abouten the walles, sauns fayle; So they dede on and othir, Fadyr and sone, eme and brothir, Made morter, and layde ston, With here myght, everilkon. Every kyng and emperere, Bare stones and mortere, Than the duke, ful off pryde, He ne wolde hem helpe for no nede. On a day Kyng Richard hym mette, And hendely the kyng hym grette, And bad hym, for hys curteysye, Make off the walles hys partye; And he aunsweryd in this manere: “My fadyr n’as mason, ne carpentere; And though your walles should all to-schake, I schall nevir help hem to make.” Kyng Richard pokyd gret errour Wrathe dede hym chaung colour; The duke, with hys foot, he smot Agayn the brest, God it wot, That on a stone he him ovirthrewe: It was evyl don be Seynt Mathèwe! “Fy! a debles, vyle coward! In helle be thou hangyd hard! Goo quyckly out off our hoost; Curse hast thou off the Holy Gost! For, be Marye, that bar Jesus, Fynde I thè, traytour, among us, Ovyr this ilke dayes thre, Myself, schal thy bane be! Traytour, we travayle day and nyght In werre, in wakyng, and in fyght, And thou lyes as a vyle glotoun, And restes in thy pavyloun, And drynkes the wyn good and strong, And slepes alle the nyght long. I schal breke thy banere And slynge it into the ryvere!”— . . . The Duke of Ostrych hyyd him faste Away, with his meyné in haste. Wyth hym the Duke off Burgoyne, The folk off Fraunce, and the erl off Boloyne. Kyng Richard brak the dukes banere, And keste it into the ryvere, And cryde on hym with voys ful stepe, “Home, schrewe! coward! and slepe! Come no more, in no wyse, Never eft in Godes servyse!”7

Although the circumstances here are very different from those in the novel, one can see how Scott derived from the romance not only the throwing down of the banner, but much of his characterisation of the loutish and sluggish Leopold of Austria.

368   Thirdly, the story in Chapter 21 of the attempted assassination of Richard and his sucking the poison from the disguised Kenneth’s wound is derived from a celebrated incident which occurred in 1272 when Edward I, on the eve of his accession to the English throne, was on the Ninth (and last) Crusade. Charles Mills, the principal historian of the Crusades in Scott’s period, dates the incident to 1271, and recounts it thus (2.264–65): the march of victory was closed, for the English soldiers were parched by the rays of a Syrian sun, and their leader was extended on the bed of sickness. The governor of Jaffa was the apparent friend of Edward, but the sultan’s threat of degradation if further commerce were held with an infidel, changed courtesy into malignity, and his brutal zeal for the display of his loyalty must have satisfied even the suspicious bosom of a tyrant. He hired the dagger of one of those assassins who had escaped the proscription which the Tartars, mercifully for the world, had made of the followers of the old man of the mountain. The wretch, as the bearer of letters, was admitted into the chamber of his intended victim. The purpose of his errand being accomplished, he drew a poniard from the concealment of his belt, and aimed a blow at Edward’s breast. After receiving two or three wounds, the vigorous prince threw the villain on the floor, and stabbed him to the heart. The dagger had been steeped in poison, and for some hours Edward’s fate was involved in danger. The fairy hand of fiction has ascribed his convalescence to one of that sex, whose generous affections are never restrained by the chilling calculations of selfishness. But the stern pen of history has recorded that his restoration to health was the simple result of surgical skill, co-operating with the salient spring of a vigorous frame. The selfless lady of the traditional version was Edward’s wife Eleanor. Fourthly, in the last scene of the novel Saladin beheads the Grand Master of the Templars as he is about to drink a goblet of iced sherbet, an execution timed so as to avoid the oriental host’s obligation to a person who has partaken of his hospitality. The original of this striking scene was etched into Scott’s memory from his boyhood. It can be found in one of his favourite books, Vertot’s The History of the Knights of Malta.8 As mentioned at the opening of the Essay on the Text, he recalls in his ‘Memoirs’ that during a tedious adolescent illness ‘I fought my way . . . through Vertot’s Knights of Malta, a book which as it hovered between history and romance was exceedingly dear to me’.9 (In the last year of his life he was to revisit Vertot more systematically for his penultimate fictional project The Siege of Malta.) This is Vertot’s version of the incident (1.85): The sultan after this gave orders to bring the king [Guy de Lusignan] into his tent, with the grand master of the templars, Renaud de Chatillon, and the other noblemen that were taken prisoners, none of whom expected a more favourable fate [than the general execution of prisoners]. Saladine, to remove the king’s apprehen-

  369 sions, made him sit down by him, and seeing the unfortunate prince half dead with thirst and weariness, ordered a liquor to be brought him that was agreeable to the taste, and cooled in snow. The king having drank, gave the cup to Renaud, but the sultan opposed it, and told the king by his interpreter, “ ’Tis for you that I sent for this liquor, and not for that vile man who is never to hope for quarter”. To understand the meaning of these words, it must be observed, that among those infidels, the rights of hospitality were inviolable, and those Barbarians never put their prisoners to death, when they had once given them any thing to eat or drink with their own hand. ’Twas for this reason that Saladine hindered Renaud from drinking after the king; he reproached him heavily with the truces that he had violated, his robberies and his inhumanity towards the prisoners, which he had taken rather, said he, as a robber, than according to the rules of war; and withal imputed to him as the greatest of crimes according to the principles of his religion, the design he had formed of surprizing and plundering Mecca and Medina, “you must then, to repair such a series of outrages, says the Sultan in a louder tone, either renounce Jesus Christ immediately or dye a victim to our prophet’s vengeance”. Renaud, bold and intrepid even under the sword of the enemy, answered him, that a Christian did not know what it was to purchase his life by such a baseness. Saladine thereupon transported with wrath drew his scymitar and struck of his head, making a martyr of that noble man, who by so crhistian [sic] and brave an end, atoned for what was less justifiable in his manner of making war. The sultan at the king’s request spared the life of the grand master of the templars, sending him to Damascus with the king and the other prisoners, from whom he expected to draw a vast ransome.10 The fifth and last major element in the novel to have a specific source is identified in the penultimate paragraph of the text itself. This is the Lee Penny, or talisman, reputed to have been brought back from Spain in the 14th century by Sir Simon Lockhart. It is a red stone let into a silver groat (fourpenny piece) from the reign of Edward IV of England (1461–83), which was used to cure both men and beasts up to Scott’s time, when it was preserved at the Lockharts’ seat, the Lee, near Lanark.11 Scott gives a fuller account of the Penny in the introduction to the Magnum edition of the novel (38.viii–xi). A number of smaller elements in The Talisman can also be traced to specific sources, for example a speech reported in Simon Ockley’s The Conquest of Syria, Persia, and Ægypt, another speech from Henry, and a proverb from d’Herbelot.12 For the most part, though, Scott owes a more pervasive general debt to a limited number of historical works. His sceptical attitude towards the Crusading enterprise is very much in line with the approaches of David Hume, Edward Gibbon and Charles Mills (see the explanatory note to 114.34–35), and in general his treatment of Richard and Saladin is aligned with theirs

370   (see the discussion below). As had been the case with his earlier treatment of Richard and his period in Ivanhoe (which is set in 1194) Scott is able to draw on his wide reading in the medieval romance tradition that he had begun to acquire a quarter of a century before. Jerome Mitchell’s discussion (177–82) of the influence of medieval romances on The Talisman, ranging from the certain to the possible, shows how fluently Scott’s intimate acquaintance with medieval literature fed into his imaginative creation of the twelfth century. Again as with Ivanhoe one is aware that the literature in question is largely post-twelfth century, and by implication the reader is advised to bear in mind Laurence Templeton’s ‘disarming admission’, as Graham Tulloch puts it,13 that ‘it is extremely probable that I may have confused the manners of two or three centuries, and introduced, during the reign of Richard the First, circumstances appropriated to a period either considerably earlier, or a good deal later than that era’. Such is certainly the case with the late fourteenth-century accounts of chivalric behaviour and warfare by Jean Froissart which were Scott’s norm for the entire middle ages.14 He read this back into the late twelfth century, making use of the elaborate formal jousting conduct in Froissart when the rather more brutal practices of two hundred years earlier might have been more appropriate. Scott will also have been imaginatively stimulated by his extensive reading of eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century fictions with eastern settings. From the time of Antoine Galland’s publication of his translation into French of the Arabian Nights (Les Mille et une nuits, 1704–17), Europe had become obsessed with tales that were variously witty, moral and terrifying, and set in an apparently alien culture. The original tales were frequently re-worked, and many imitations were produced and became very popular. Both original material and modern compositions feature in the close on 2000 double-column pages of Weber’s compilation Tales of the East (1812).15 In English, Samuel Johnson’s Rasselas (1759) and William Beckford’s Vathek (1786) were the most significant eighteenth-century imitations, the one presenting an idealised moral world with lessons to teach Europe, the other a frightening world that both repels and fascinates. Scott’s novel has much of Johnson’s moral seriousness. Beckford’s notes to Vathek will have alerted him to the potential for fictional narrative of d’Herbelot’s extensive encyclopedia, and the two dwarfs who play a prominent part in Beckford’s narrative may well have prompted their counterparts in his own. Scott had also encountered the compelling oriental narratives in verse and prose by his contemporaries: Robert Southey’s Thalaba (1801); Byron’s The Giaour and The Bride of Abydos (1813), and The Corsair (1814); Thomas Moore’s Lalla Rookh (1817); Thomas Hope’s Anastasius (1819); and James Justinian Morier’s Hajji Baba (1824).16 No doubt these works helped to familiarise his imagination with eastern imagery and rhetoric, though he would not have wanted to incur identifiable debts to such well-known material. As with Vathek he may well have found the notes to these works, citing their oriental sources, particularly stimulating.

  371 It would be possible to suggest a source for almost every detail in The Talisman. The explanatory notes in the present edition mention only a few of the more striking possibilities.17 It is of course often impossible to determine from which source Scott derived a particular point. The explanatory note to 247.23 gives three possibilities for sourcing the Emir’s green turban (in Gibbon, Hajji Baba and Anastasius), and there are very likely others that have not been located. This is evidence of the breadth and depth of the resources on which Scott was able to draw for materials to adopt and adapt. He had on his shelves at Abbotsford not only most of the relevant imaginative works of his time, written in the oriental lingua franca which their authors built up and absorbed from each other, but the overtly scholarly tomes and earlier material referred to above. As Mark Girouard puts it, ‘Scott’s genius was based on almost inexhaustible creative energy, combined with remarkably wide reading and research’.18 Principal Characters. As is customary in the Waverley Novels Scott had a mix of historical and fictional characters, and some of the historical characters are historical only in name. Giles Amaury, Grand Lord of the Templars. Amaury is a fictitious figure. He is called ‘Brother’ as the Templars were a religious order who lived under a strict rule; but the Templars were widely perceived as corrupt (see note to 60.12–13), and this perception informs their treatment in The Talisman, and in Ivanhoe. Historically, the Flemish Gerard de Ridefort had been Grand Master from 1185 to 1189; he died at Acre and was succeeded after an intermission by the Angevin Robert de Sablé from 1191 to 1193. Robert and Richard (his feudal master) acted together in several matters during the Crusade, but this is not evident in the novel. The sinister character of the Grand Master was probably influenced by the attitude of history to the Order, which was dissolved early in the fourteenth century amidst charges of scandal and corruption; however, there had been resentment at its power almost from its inception in 1119, because it owed its allegiance directly to the Pope and was not subject to the ordinary discipline of a bishop, and because of its enormous accumulation of wealth. Berengaria. Berengaria of Navarre (c. 1165–1230) was married to Richard in Cyprus on 12 May 1191. Richard’s choice of the daughter of the King of Navarre (across the Pyrenees from Aquitaine) was designed to strengthen his position in the south-west of France. The character in the novel is essentially imaginary. Conrade of Montserrat. Scott altered his name from Montferrat, derived from Monferrato in north-west Italy. He may have misread the ‘f ’ for a long ‘s’ in his sources (although if it was a mistake it was of long standing for in 1808 he had referred to ‘Montserrat’ in Marmion, Canto 1, stanza 23), or it may have been a deliberate change. Either way, it gave him the opportunity to introduce a punning coat of arms (266.19–20). The family was ambitious, with Conrad’s elder brother marrying the sister of the King of Jerusalem and fathering Baldwin V, and a younger one in due course being a leader of the Fourth Crusade

372   (1202–04) and becoming King of Thessalonica. Conrad himself became King of Jerusalem by marrying the heiress to the throne, but was stabbed to death in the street by assassins, an incident adapted for Scott’s novel. Gibbon and Mills present Conrad in an entirely favourable light. For Gibbon he displayed ‘firmness of . . . zeal’ and was ‘valiant’ (6.117, 120: Ch. 59); Mills also sees him as ‘valiant’, showing himself ‘worthy of a kingdom’ (1.442; 2.47). Scott’s portrait is at once less favourable and considerably more complex (see especially 90.40–91.5 and 101.16–23). Edith. Edith, a relative of Richard’s, is entirely an invention by Scott: as the Scottish hero is a fiction, it was necessary to have a fictional lover. Kenneth. Kenneth of Scotland is not known to history. The earldom of Huntingdon was held by successive heirs to the Scottish throne throughout the twelfth century. The Earl from 1185 to 1219 was David (1152–1219), younger brother of William the Lion, King of Scots from 1165 to 1214. There is a medieval tradition that he took part in the Third Crusade, but no reliable evidence has been found to support this. Scott would have been familiar with the tradition from Hector Boece’s The Chronicles of Scotland, translated by John Bellenden (1531): ‘And quhen King William had resavit al his landis and castellis on this maner, he maid his brothir David Erle of Huntingtoun; and send him with . . [5000] men to support King Richard in his weris’.19 Boece does not give any details of David’s Crusading activity, and the rumour is dismissed by Alan Macquarrie as no more than that, though he expresses surprise at its persistency.20 Leopold. Leopold V (1157–94), who succeeded his father Henry II as Duke of Austria in 1177, had reached the Holy Land earlier than Richard and Philip, and may have believed that he had an important role as the leader of the German contingent in the place of the deceased Emperor Frederick Barbarossa and his son Frederick of Swabia (who had died of disease soon after his arrival in the East). In fact, the kings of France and England carried greater weight with the other Crusaders and considered that they had the right to divide the spoils. Leopold is best known for his imprisoning of Richard as he travelled back through Europe in late 1192 (see explanatory note to 102.41–103.2). But Scott’s nuanced characterisation (102–04) takes as its point of departure the account in Richard Coer de Lion of the incident lying behind that imprisoning, when Leopold raised his standard at Acre in the hope of a share of the plunder, but had it thrown down (see 366–67 above). Philip. Philip II Auguste (1165–1223) succeeded his father Louis VII as King of France in 1180. He had endured, as had his father, the frictions of Henry II’s presence in western France, as the Angevins extended their possessions. Henry’s marriage in 1152 to Eleanor of Aquitaine (who had been previously the childless wife of Philip’s father, Louis VII) added Aquitaine to Henry’s sphere of influence (it was not until towards the end of his reign that victory at the battle of Bouvines (1214) enabled Philip to conquer most of the Angevin

  373 lands, including Normandy, with the exception of parts of Aquitaine). After Henry II’s death, Richard’s rejection of Philip’s sister Alice as his bride had added to the bad blood between them. Philip and Richard were reluctant partners in the Crusade. Taken together, Scott’s chief authorities present Philip as a somewhat ambiguous figure: for Hume he was characterised by vigour and capacity, but jealous and addicted to intrigue (1.461, 2.15, 18, 24); for Gibbon he was ‘brave, but the statesman predominated in his character’, though ‘he was not less ambitious of praise than of power’ (6.120, 145: Chs 59, 60); Mills takes up the last point and sees him predominantly as Richard’s rival in ‘love of military honour’ (2.16). Scott seems to have taken his principal cue from Gibbon’s first statement: his Philip is ‘brave in person, but a politician rather than a warrior’ (114.29–30). Richard. Richard I, King of England from 1189 to 1199, was one of four sons of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine who reached adulthood. Born in 1157, he was betrothed in 1169 to Alice, daughter of Louis VII of France, and in the same year he was given the duchy of Aquitaine (his mother’s inheritance), since his elder brother, Henry, was expected to succeed their father on the throne and to lands on both sides of the English Channel. As it happened, his brother Henry died in 1183, so Richard, already powerful in his own right, became a rival of his father especially in France, and of his younger brother, John. In fact, he spent much of his life outside England engaged in warfare. During his ten-year reign he was only in England for a total of six months. His skills in warfare and personal valour were widely recognised in his own time, and gave rise to his status as the hero of a number of legendary tales. Scott’s principal sources vary widely in their estimates of his character (as do modern historians). For Hume he was ‘so much guided by passion, and so little by policy’ (2.2), ‘candid, sincere, undesigning, impolitic, violent’ (2.9); ‘of an impetuous and vehement spirit, he was distinguished by all the good, as well as the bad qualities, incident to that character: He was open, frank, generous, sincere, and brave; he was revengeful, domineering, ambitious, haughty, and cruel; and was thus better calculated to dazzle men by the splendour of his enterprises, than either to promote their happiness or his own grandeur, by a sound and well-regulated policy’ (2.34–35). Robert Henry is also reasonably balanced, although his praise (‘a wise politician, an eloquent orator, an admired poet, and the most illustrious warrior of the age in which he flourished’: 5.227) is more than outweighed by his censure: ‘This prince was not so eminent for his virtues as for his accomplishments. On the contrary, though on some occasions he acted in a noble manner, especially to his prostrate enemies, he was in general haughty, cruel, covetous, passionate, sensual, an undutiful son, and unfaithful husband, and a most pernicious king, having, by his long absence and continental wars, drained his English dominions both of men and money’ (5.228). Gibbon and Mills are still less balanced, though they incline in different directions. Gibbon takes a severe view: ‘if heroism be confined to brutal and ferocious valour, Richard Plantagenet will

374   stand high among the heroes of the age’ (6.120: Ch. 59). For Mills, notwithstanding his dismissive view of the Crusades in general, Richard was entirely admirable: he was ‘bold, ardent, and valiant’ (2.16); he ‘gained more honour in Palestine than any of the emperors of Germany and kings of France who had sought renown in foreign war: and although these distant ages may censure his conduct as unprofitable to his country, yet his actions were in unison with that spirit of the times which looked upon valour as more important than empire, and esteemed achievements in battle more highly than the consequences of victory’ (2.70). In this case Scott’s presentation is closest to Hume in its balanced rhetoric: Richard is ‘heroic though impetuous’ (54.37) and ‘rash but generous’ (117.3–4). Saladin. Salah al-Din (1137/38–93) was a Kurd born at Tikrit on the Tigris, north-west of Baghdad. His military skills led to his becoming Sultan of Egypt in 1169. He later deposed the Fatimid caliph there, and went on to found the Ayyubid dynasty. He conquered Syria and upper Mesopotamia, and established a unified Muslim state in the face of the Western incomers along the coast of Palestine. The high point of his career was the capture of Jerusalem from the Crusaders in 1187. After the inconsequential warfare of 1187–92 he signed a truce with Richard I shortly before the English King left the Holy Land. Saladin soon came to be idealised in the West (in the early fourteenth century Dante in La Divina Commedia allots him an honoured place among the virtuous pagans in the first circle of hell), and Scott’s historical mentors are at one in their high estimation of the sultan. He was a man after Hume’s heart, to whom Richard must yield in character (2.22): The advantage indeed of science, moderation, humanity, was at that time entirely on the side of the Saracens; and this gallant emperor, in particular, displayed, during the course of the war, a spirit and generosity, which even his bigotted enemies were obliged to acknowledge and admire. Richard, equally martial and brave, carried with him more of the barbarian character; and was guilty of acts of ferocity, which threw a stain on his celebrated victories. Gibbon is disturbed by the circumstances of Saladin’s rise to power, but admires immensely his temperance, justice and liberality (6.111–12: Ch. 59). Mills essentially follows Gibbon, though his fierce anti-Islamic stance leads him to place much more emphasis than Gibbon does on ‘the intolerant spirit of his religion’ (2.83): the closest Scott comes to Mills on this point is 24.31–32, where the Saracens ‘were a race, polished, perhaps, to the utmost extent which their religion permitted’. Scott was clearly happy to join his authorities in presenting an admirable figure, and a special debt to Hume is evident in his emphasis on Saladin’s general moral superiority over his Christian antagonists. Modern historians tend to regard Scott’s Saladin as idealised, stressing instead his ambition and ruthlessness.21

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3

4

5

The Crusades: Idea and Reality, 1095–1274 (London, 1981), 19. Sidney Painter, ‘The Third Crusade: Richard the Lionhearted and Philip Augustus’, in A History of the Crusades, ed. Kenneth M. Setton, Vol. 2 The Later Crusades, 1189–1311, ed. R. L. Wolff and H. W. Hazard (Philadelphia, 1962), 85. Compare Christopher Tyerman, God’s War: A New History of the Crusades (London, 2006), 473: ‘the capture of Acre proved a major triumph, providing the otherwise ateliotic [dwarfish] restored kingdom of Jerusalem with a commercial centre of international importance. The effective conquest of significant parts of the coastal plain allowed for the establishment of a territorial state that, with further additions in the decade after 1192, lasted intact until the 1260’s.’ A. A. Vasiliev, History of the Byzantine Empire 324–1453, 2 vols (Madison, 1958), 2.447. Compare P. H. Newby’s more limited judgment in Saladin in His Time (London, 1983), 184: ‘the Crusade was pinned down, its attacking force blunted, for two years’. Chs 1–5 are a sort of prologue to the main action, occupying one day and one night. There is a short break (perhaps a day, perhaps a week) before Ch. 6. By Ch. 15 the narrative has reached the third day of the main sequence, which continues to the middle of Ch. 20 (187), where there is a break of four days. Chs 22–23 revisit the first three of those four days. Ch. 24 takes place on the eighth day of the main action (218.36), and at 227.6 the concluding combat is fixed for five days ahead, the 13th day. Dhohak, or Zohak. Name of the fifth King of the first [legendary] dynasty of the kings of Persia, known as the Pishdadians. This prince, notorious in the East for his cruelty, was . . . descended from Siamak son of Caiumaras, first king of that same Pishdadian line, or the son of a sister of Gemshid his predecessor. . . . The prince was regarded by his subjects as an abominable tyrant, as much because of his murder of his predecessor whose office he had usurped, as for his unjust and violent regime and the new punishments he devised, such as flaying alive and crucifying those he condemned to death. Zohak’s cruelty was considerably augmented when he found himself devoured by cancerous tumours on both shoulders, which the Persians call two serpents, from which they derive his nickname ‘Mar’ (serpent). The cause of this illness is related in a fabulous manner in the Caherman Nameh [a Turkish romance]. This author says that the Devil came one day and offered his services, and after doing his master’s pleasure for several years, asked as a reward only to kiss his shoulders. He was allowed to do this, and two serpents immediately attached themselves, feeding on Zohak’s flesh. Having caused this infliction, the Devil announced a diabolical remedy. Every day there should be applied the brains of two men who had been executed for that purpose. Once all the prisons had been emptied of criminals it became necessary to fix on innocent victims, who were drawn from every area and status and confined in a place set apart for this butchery.

376

6 7

8 9 10

  It so happened that the children of an Ispahan blacksmith called Gas were selected. Aroused by this violence, the father called for assistance and running madly through the town, carrying his leather apron attached to a pole as a standard, in a little time he assembled those whose indignation had been aroused by the tyrant’s cruelty. The assembled crowd straight away went to the prisons to release the prisoners and having augmented their band with a large number of these wretched folk they constituted an army dedicated to vengeance. Gas was the commander, and could have become Prince, but he modestly sought a member of the royal family worthy to assume the Persian crown. They located Feridoun in a place of retreat, chosen as much to avoid the tyrant’s fury as to attend to spiritual exercises. Everyone immediately acclaimed him as King, and putting himself at their head he attacked Zohak so vigorously that he was forced to abandon Persia and take refuge in Syria. But he was no safer there, because Feridoun pursued and captured him, and confined him in one of the fearful caverns of Mount Damavend. After such a happy expedition Gas crowned Feridoun with his own hands, and that prince kept the blacksmith’s standard as a memento of his zeal and bravery. Khondemir [a 16th-century historian] adds (speaking of those people who were imprisoned to provide brains as the only remedy for Zohak’s torment), that their guards were moved by pity to let many of them escape, and these hid in the wildest lands so as never again to be recognised in their own country, their liberators substituting sheep brains. The wretched fugitives who thus exiled themselves dispersed to different parts of Asia, and finally formed distinctive nations; according to this historian that is the ultimate origin of the Kurds. Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances, ed. George Ellis, 3 vols (London, 1805), 2.93–279: CLA, 105. The incident occurs at 2.262–63. Metrical Romances of the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Centuries, ed. Henry Weber, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1810), 2.232–35, lines 5909–88: CLA, 105. For good measure Scott would have encountered the incident again in Mills’s A History of the Crusades (2.386), which quotes Ellis’s summary, but places the scene at Acre, a location accepted by modern historians. Abbé [René Aubert] de Vertot, The History of the Knights of Malta, 2 vols (London, 1728): CLA, 270. The original French version published in 1726 is also at Abbotsford: CLA, 41. Scott on Himself, ed. David Hewitt (Edinburgh, 1981), 34. Gibbon (6.114) gives a slightly briefer version: ‘The royal captive was conducted to the tent of Saladin; and as he fainted with thirst and terror, the generous victor presented him with a cup of sherbet, cooled in snow, without suffering his companion, Reginald of Châtillon, to partake of this pledge of hospitality and pardon. “The person and dignity of a king,” said the sultan, “are sacred; but this impious robber must instantly acknowledge the prophet, whom he has blasphemed, or meet the death which he has so often deserved.” On the proud or conscientious refusal of the Christian warrior, Saladin struck him on the head with his scimitar,

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11 12 13 14 15 16

17

18 19

20 21

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and Reginald was dispatched by the guards.’ There is a variant of the story, without the Grand Master, in d’Herbelot, 3.177: ‘Saladin reçut le Roy de Jerusalem, son Prisonnier, sous une tente magnifique qu’il fit dresser exprès pour cette céremonie, & le fit asseoir à son côté. Le Roy, qui avoit auprès de luy Bornos, Seigneur de la Ville de Crac, Capitale de l’Arabie Petrée, demanda à boire. On luy apporta de l’eau frâiche qu’il but; mais Bornos voulant boire après le Roy, Saladin s’y opposa & dit au Roy: Je ne permettray point que ce méchant homme boive en ma présence; car je ne veux point luy faire de quartier, & s’approchant du même Bornos: Tu sçais fort bien, luy dit-il, d’un ton de colère, que tu n’as jamais usé d’aucune sorte d’honnêteté envers les Musulmans. Tu as fait même une enterprise sacrilége sur les Villes sacrées de la Mecque & de Medine. Enfin, tu as toûjours usé envers moy d’une manière toute contraire à celle que j’ay pratiquée jusqu’icy envers toy. Et il n’eut pas plûtôt achevé ces paroles, qu’en dégainant le sabre qu’il portoit, il luy coupa la tête de sa propre main.’ See The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson and others, 12 vols (London, 1932–37), 9.176–77n. See notes to 19.14–22, 170.12–15 and 201.10–11. Ivanhoe, ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 500. For Froissart in the original French and in translations by Berners and Johnes see CLA, 51, 29, 28. For source material or parallels for The Talisman in Weber see explanatory notes to 28.8, 44.31, 76.35, 92.15–16, 121.3, 134.27, 188.30, 191.24–25, 203.22–23, 248.22 and 272.17–20. Robert Southey, Thalaba the Destroyer, 2 vols (London, 1801): CLA, 246. Lord Byron, The Giaour (1813), The Bride of Abydos (1813) and The Corsair (1814): CLA, 198. Thomas Moore, Lalla Rookh (1817): CLA, 185. [Thomas Hope], Anastasius: or, Memoirs of a Greek; written at the close of the eighteenth century, 3 vols (London, 1819). James Justinian Morier, The Adventures of Hajji Baba, of Ispahan, 3 vols (London, 1824): CLA, 259. For indications of some types of possible source study see Mitchell (especially 177–82) as mentioned earlier in the note, and Robert Irwin, ‘Saladin and the Third Crusade: A Case Study in Historiography and the Historical Novel’, in Michael Bentley, Companion to Historiography (London and New York, 1997), 139–52. See also Margaret Jubb, The Legend of Saladin in Western Literature and Historiography (Lewiston, Queenston, and Lampeter, 2000), especially 202–04. The Return to Camelot: Chivalry and the English Gentleman (New Haven and London, 1981), 30. The History and Chronicles of Scotland: written in Latin by Hector Boece, . . . and translated by John Bellenden, which comprises Vols 1 and 2 of The Works of John Bellenden, 3 vols (Edinburgh, 1821–22), 2.323: CLA, 4. Alan Macquarrie, Scotland and the Crusades 1095–1560 (Edinburgh, 1985), 30–32. See P. H. Newby, Saladin in his Time (London, 1983), 24, for a description of this debunking process, which Newby thinks has been carried

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  too far, not taking enough account of the near anarchy of the period. He concludes: ‘Just what the real Saladin was trying to do is still a matter for argument and neither the romanticists [such as Scott] nor the debunkers can hope to have it all their own way. The truth is more interesting.’

EXPLANATORY NOTES

In these notes a comprehensive attempt is made to identify Scott’s sources, and all quotations, references, historical events, and historical personages, to explain proverbs, and to translate difficult or obscure language. (Phrases are explained in the notes while single words are treated in the glossary.) The notes are brief; they offer information rather than critical comment or exposition. When a quotation has not been recognised this is stated: any new information from readers will be welcomed. References are to standard editions, or to the editions Scott himself used. Thus proverbs are normally identified both by reference to the third edition of Ray’s A Compleat Collection of English Proverbs, and to The Oxford Dictionary of English Proverbs. Books in the Abbotsford Library are identified by reference to the appropriate page of the Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford. When quotations reproduce their sources accurately, the reference is given without comment. Verbal differences in the source are indicated by a prefatory ‘see’, while a general rather than a verbal indebtedness is indicated by ‘compare’. Biblical references are to the Authorised Version. Plays by Shakespeare are cited without authorial ascription, and references are to William Shakespeare: The Complete Works, edited by Peter Alexander (London and Glasgow, 1951, frequently reprinted). The following publications are distinguished by abbreviations, or are given without the names of their authors: CLA [J. G. Cochrane], Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford (Edinburgh, 1838).     The Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels (Edinburgh, 1993–). Gibbon Edward Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (originally published 1776–88), ed. Oliphant Smeaton, introd. Christopher Dawson, 6 vols (London, 1966; first published 1904): see CLA, 204. Gillingham John Gillingham, Richard I (New Haven and London, 1999). Henry Robert Henry, The History of Great Britain, 4th edn, 12 vols (London, 1805–06): CLA, 38. d’Herbelot [Barthélemy] d’Herbelot, Bibliotheque orientale (continué par Mrs C. Visdelou et A. Galand), 4 vols (The Hague, 1777–79): CLA, 267. Hume David Hume, The History of England, from the Invasion of Julius Cæsar to the Revolution in 1688, 8 vols (London, 1791): compare CLA, 28. Mills Charles Mills, The History of the Crusades, 2 vols (London, 1820): CLA, 231. ODEP The Oxford Dictionary of English Proverbs, 3rd edn, rev. F. P. Wilson (Oxford, 1970). OED The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd edn, 20 vols (Oxford, 1989). Poetical Works The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., [ed. J. G. Lockhart], 12 vols (Edinburgh, 1833–34). Prose Works The Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 28 vols (Edinburgh, 1834–36). Ray J[ohn] Ray, A Compleat Collection of English Proverbs, 3rd edn (London, 1737): CLA, 169. 379

380

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Qur’an The Qur’an, trans. M. A. S. Abdel Haleem, World’s Classics edn (Oxford, 2005). Weber Tales of the East, ed. Henry Weber, 3 vols (Edinburgh, 1812): CLA, 43. The following editions of The Talisman have proved most helpful: ed. with introduction and notes (London: Macmillan, 1904); ed. A. S. Gaye (Cambridge, 1906); and ed. C. B. Wheeler (Oxford, 1919). 3.6–8 motto see John Milton, Paradise Regained (1671), 3.165–66: ‘he [Judas Maccabeus] indeed/ Retired unto the desert, but with arms’. 3.9 Syria as an area Syria, also known as the Levant, took in the south of modern Turkey, and the modern countries of Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Israel, and northern Iraq W of the Euphrates. 3.10 a knight of the red cross Gibbon notes (6.39n: Ch. 58) that the Crusaders wore crosses ‘Most commonly on their shoulders, in gold, or silk, or cloth, sewed on their garments. In the first crusade all were red; in the third the French alone preserved that colour, while green crosses were adopted by the Flemings, and white by the English . . . Yet in England the red ever appears the favourite, and as it were, the national colour of our military ensigns and uniforms.’ 3.13–15 the Dead Sea . . . discharge of waters the Dead Sea, 80 km long and up to 18 km wide, forms part of the boundary between the modern states of Israel and Jordan. It is about 400m below sea level. As the text indicates there is no outlet to the sea, and it is so salty that it supports little or no life. The Romans knew it as Lacus Asphaltites. 3.19–20 the accursed cities . . . the Omnipotent Sodom and Gomorrah, the two cities destroyed by God for their wickedness (Genesis 19.24–29). They are normally thought to have been at the SW corner of the Dead Sea, and in Scott’s day it was believed that their remains had been submerged. See also note to 4.10–11. 3.23–24 the fair and fertile valley . . . Garden of the Lord the ‘vale of Siddim’ is identified with the Dead Sea in Genesis 14.3 (‘Siddim, which is the salt sea’), and it is assumed it was fertile because from Bethel Lot ‘beheld all the plain of Jordan, that it was well watered every where, before the Lord destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, even as the garden of the Lord’ (Genesis 13.10). In ancient times the S end of the Dead Sea may indeed have been very fertile. 3.26 Crossing himself making the sign of the cross. 3.32 bears no skiff on its surface according to John Carne (Letters from the East (London, 1826), 381) the Dead Sea ‘has never been navigated since the cities were engulphed’. In Scott’s time there was indeed no navigation of its waters, but it was common up to the middle ages, and again in the later 19th century: see Barbara Kreiger, The Dead Sea: Myth, History, and Politics (Hanover, New Hampshire, 1997), 26–28. 4.3–4 brimstone and salt . . . groweth thereon see Deuteronomy 29.23. 4.7–8 odour of bitumen and sulphur the Dead Sea does not smell like this, but it might have been thought to have done so as according to Genesis 14.10 ‘the vale of Siddim was full of slimepits’, i.e. bitumen pits. 4.10–11 Masses . . . sullen waves naphtha, or liquid petroleum of a thin and volatile kind, came from the bitumen pits (see previous note). It used to rise to the surface of the Dead Sea: see ‘Asphaltos’ in E[phraim] Chambers, Cyclopædia, or, An Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, 4th edn, 2 vols (London, 1741): ‘The asphaltos of the Greeks is the bitumen of the Modern naturalists. . . . It is chiefly found swimming on the surface of

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the lacus Asphaltites, or dead sea, where antiently stood the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.—It is cast up from time to time, in the nature of a liquid pitch, from the earth which lies under this sea; and being thrown upon the water, swims like other fat bodies, and condenses by little and little, through the heat of the sun, and the salt that is in it: it burns with great vehemence; in which it resembles naptha; but is thicker as to consistence.’ By the early 19th century this was becoming unusual: see Barbara Kreiger, The Dead Sea: Myth, History, and Politics (Hanover, New Hampshire, 1997), 130. 4.13 the Mosaic history the first five books of the Old Testament were each traditionally called a ‘Book of Moses’. 4.17 at a foot’s pace at walking pace. 4.20–21 A coat of linked mail . . . breast-plate Strutt notes that in the mid-12th century plated mail ‘in the form of small diamonds’ gave way to chain mail. Plate armour did not begin to be developed until the end of the following century: Joseph Strutt, A Complete View of the Dress and Habits of the People of England, 2 vols (London, 1799), 1.116: CLA, 154. 4.23 baret helmet the expression is apparently Scott’s coinage. It probably indicates the flat-topped cylindrical helmet of the 12th century (see text 4.43–5.1). 4.32 his proper weapon ‘The lance was the proper and peculiar weapon of the knight’: Gibbon, 6.57 (Ch. 58). The whole description of the knight and his horse may be indebted to this passage in Gibbon. 4.40–41 a couchant leopard . . . “I sleep—wake me not.” Scott appears not to intend the normal heraldic meaning of couchant (‘lying with the head lifted’), as opposed to dormant (‘sleeping’). 5.6–13 The animal had a heavy saddle . . . unicorn in the 12th century the Crusaders’ horses would have been equipped with chain mail, but not plate armour which did not begin to be developed until the beginning of the following century. But Ann Hyland remarks: ‘horsemen of all periods have tried out new practices before they became an accepted part of the equestrian scene’ (The Medieval Warhorse from Byzantium to the Crusades (Stroud, 1994), 92–93). 5.30–32 the renowned Norman line . . . their adventurous swords the Normans controlled northern France, England, southern Italy and Sicily at the time of the novel. 5.34–36 those obtained by the solitary knight . . . spiritual privileges Mills notes (1.57) that ‘as the last great aid to religious inclination, the council [of Clermont in 1095] decreed that the journey to Jerusalem should stand in the place of all ecclesiastical censures to those who undertook it from motives of religion, and not from the suggestions of avarice or ambition’. In an end-note he comments (1.464): ‘When, therefore, the crusade was preached, it was joyfully received by the nobles. They might pursue their usual course of life; and a repetition of crime would atone for former sins.’ 5.42 the Saracens Arabian Muslims. Among the later Greeks and Romans, Saracen was a name for the nomadic peoples of the Syro-Arabian desert who harassed the Syrian area of the Roman Empire; hence it became a name for an Arab or a Muslim, especially with reference to the Crusades. 6.13 station the use of this word suggests that Scott is recalling the opening desert scene in Robert Southey’s Thalaba the Destroyer (1801). 6.16 living waters i.e. flowing fresh water. The phrase has biblical connotations: see Song of Solomon 4.15; Jeremiah 2.13, 17.13; Zechariah 14.8. 6.26–27 In the desert . . . no man meets a friend the proverb may well be Scott’s creation. 6.28–29 borne on the wings of an eagle see Exodus 19.4. 6.32 placed it in rest put the butt-end of the lance into a contrivance

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at the right side of the cuirass to prevent it from being driven back upon impact. 7.2 at full career at full speed. 8.19 There is truce betwixt our nations see Historical Note, 364. 8.19–21 the lingua franca . . . crusaders an Italian expression lingua franca, literally meaning ‘Frankish language’; as in Arabic the word ‘Frank’ was used to refer to all Europeans lingua franca effectively means ‘common language’. It may have had its beginnings before the First Crusade in 1096, and may have been derived from ‘the simplified Jewish trading Latin of the late classical and early medieval period’. The lexicon of eastern Mediterranean lingua franca ‘was derived primarily from Italian and Provençal’: John Holm, Pidgins and Creoles, 2 vols, continuously paginated (Cambridge, 1989), 607. However, there is no contemporary evidence that such a language was used during the Crusades, and it seems that each side employed interpreters when required. 8.26 the Prophet Mohammed (c. 570–632), founder of Islam, and regarded by Muslims as a messenger and prophet of God. 8.32 the cross of my sword see 4.30. 8.35 Mahommed for the spelling of the name see Essay on the Text, 317. 8.35 Allah the name for God in Arabic. 9.2–16 Times of danger . . . warlike life admitted Mitchell comments that the fight ‘ends in a manner typical of [Sir Thomas] Malory, with the combatants ceasing hostilities and assuming a friendly attitude towards each other’: Jerome Mitchell, Scott, Chaucer, and Medieval Romance (Lexington, Kentucky, 1987), 180. 9.18 Crescent symbol of Islam. The Ottomans adopted the crescent moon after their conquest of Constantinople in 1453, though a crescent device appears on their standards a century earier. The OED notes that the ‘attribution of the crescent by modern writers to the Saracens of Crusading times and the Moors of Spain is a historical and chronological error’. 9.19–20 much softened . . . spirit of chivalry in his ‘Essay on Chivalry’ Scott writes that other than the adoption of Christianity ‘we know no cause which has produced such general and permanent difference between the ancients and moderns, as that which has arisen out of the institution of chivalry’; he goes on to describe the training of a knight which includes ‘practising the virtues of humility, modesty, and temperance’: Prose Works, 6.5. See also Gibbon, 6.55–58 (Ch. 58). 9.22 the Saracens . . . of Spain Muslims ruled part or all of Spain from 711 until 1492, when the last Muslim state, the kingdom of Granada, surrendered to Ferdinand and Isabella, the first rulers of a united Spain. 9.23–25 fanatical savages . . . the Koran in the other this view of the rise of Islam was general: e.g. Gibbon writes that ‘the assault of the naked Saracens’ might have been repelled if properly opposed, and if so ‘the torrent of fanaticism might have been obscurely lost in the sands of Arabia’ (Gibbon, 5.297: Ch. 51). Between 627 and 632 Mohammed had extended the reach of Islam throughout the Arabian peninsula, and under the Rashidun and Umayyad Caliphates (632–750) the empire extended to embrace by force of arms the whole of the Middle East, coastal North Africa and southern Spain. But the main object of the expansion was commercial and political rather than theological: other faiths were tolerated, and it was not until the final years of this period that conversion to Islam was actively encouraged. 9.25 the Koran the Qur’an, the central text of Islam. Islam holds that the Qur’an was revealed to Mohammed by the angel Jibrîl (Gabriel) between 610 and 632. It is traditionally believed that the Qur’an was written down by

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Mohammed’s companions from his dictation, that the written text was compiled in 633, and that it had been standardised by 653, but the origins of the Qur’an are fiercely debated by modern scholars. Muslims believe the Qur’an to be the final revelation of God, and to provide the ultimate guidance for human life. 9.27 the Prophet of Mecca Mohammed received his first revelations and proclaimed the revelation of God in the city of Mecca. He lived there until he transferred his activities to Medina in 622. 9.28 the unwarlike Greeks and Syrians Syria, part of the Byzantine (or Greek) empire, was conquered by Islamic forces in 632–36, a ‘large majority’ of the inhabitants of Damascus accepting ‘the terms of toleration and tribute’ (Gibbon, 5.319: Ch. 51). But Gibbon’s account makes clear that there was substantial resistance. 9.28–35 in contending . . . rank analogous the influence seems rather to have been in the opposite direction: ‘The image of the knights and all that this entails regarding manly virtues and the glorification of woman, has a far more general character in Islam than in Christianity. It is a very old concept, dating back to the pre-Islamic model of the knight of the desert. . . . In Moorish Spain chivalry flourished in the eleventh century—no later—and there is no doubt that it acted as a stimulus to the neighboring Christian countries. . . . Throughout the Islamic world there were brotherhoods, that may be described as orders of knights . . . Their motto was the Arabic expression fütuwã, which may be translated as magnanimity, comprising the chivalrous virtues of fearlessness, charity, and generosity’ (Titus Burckhardt, Moorish Culture in Spain, trans. Alisa Jaffa (London, 1972), 93, 109). Andrew Favine (André Favyne) notes that in the 12th century ‘the Soldane of Babylon, and of Suria, otherwise called Syria; had Knights that were named De la Halcqua, that is to say, Knights of the Chamber of Honour’: The Theater of Honour and Knight-hood, 2 vols in 1 (London, 1623), 2.413. 11.3 list to a Frank, and hear a fable this aphorism has not been found elsewhere and may be Scott’s invention. ‘Frank’ was the term used in the East for all the West European Crusaders, largely because the Frenchspeaking kingdoms took the lead in the invasions. 11.15 the seven oceans i.e. the ‘seven seas’, which in common parlance signifies all the seas of the world, rather than the modern seven oceans. 11.16–17 the Red Sea endured . . . his host see Exodus 14.19–30. 11.25–26 a fiery furnace seven times heated see Daniel Ch. 3, where King Nebuchadnezzar has Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego thrown into ‘a burning fiery furnace’ heated ‘seven times more than it was wont to be heated’ for their refusal to worship a golden image. 11.32 You are . . . of a nation that loves to laugh see note to 160.29–32. 12.13 living water see note to 6.16 and, for the singular form, John 4.10–11, 7.38. 13.11 the ancient Gothic cast of form for 18th-century historians the Goths were the Germanic peoples of Central Europe, Scandinavia and much of Britain. John Pinkerton in his An Enquiry into the History of Scotland preceding . . . 1056, 2 vols (London, 1789: CLA, 9) says ‘the grand features of the Goths’ were ‘fair faces, and red, or light hair’ (1.26n). 13.16–18 the mustaches . . . the Norman fashion in the course of an extended discussion of the subject Strutt observes of the time of Richard I that ‘beards were less worn at that period than they had been prior to it, or than they were in the succeeding century’: Joseph Strutt, A Complete View of the Dress and Habits of the People of England, 2 vols (London, 1799), 1.103: CLA, 154.

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13.18 His nose was Grecian i.e. the line of his forehead continued down the nose without a dip between the eyes. 13.21 His age could not exceed thirty historically, it could. Richard was born on 8 September 1157, so in 1191 he would have been at least 33. 14.5–7 the exaggerated terms . . . infidel champions see e.g. the description of the gigantic Ferragus in George Ellis’s summary (from a transcript from the Auchinleck   transmitted by Scott) of Roland and Ferragus: ‘He had twenty men’s strength;/ And forty feet of length/ Thilke paynim had;/ And four feet in the face/ Y-meten on the place,/ And fifteen in brede./ His nose was a foot and more;/ His brow, as bristles wore;/ (He that it saw it said)/ He looked lothliche,/ And was swart as pitch;/ Of him men might adrede!’ (Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances, 3 vols (London, 1805), 2.301–02: CLA, 105). 14.7–8 fabulous description . . . sign-posts many inns were (and still are) called ‘the Saracen’s Head’. In days before general literacy inns had pictorial signs to identify themselves; as a pub sign the ‘Saracen’s Head’ may date back to Crusading times. 14.17 Damascus blade swords from Damascus were renowned for their sharpness and toughness. They were made from a steel which combined very hard compounds of carbon and a metal, with iron, in a process developed in India which exported the steel all over the Middle East. See also note to 255.10–12. 14.26 warm and choleric tempers the phrase alludes to the theory of ‘humours’ which dominated medical theory until the 19th century, whereby all human diseases and personality traits were determined by which of four humours (black bile, yellow bile, phlegm and blood) was predominant or in deficit. Someone who was ‘warm and choleric’ had an excess of yellow bile. 14.42 coarse barley-bread barley was a staple crop in the middle ages, and bread made from barley was common peasant fare. 15.1 their Syrian conquests see note to 9.28. 15.5–6 hog’s-flesh . . . Moslemah the Qur’an forbids the consumption of the meat of pigs (2.173; 16.115). The reason is probably dietary, to prevent the ingestion of parasites. 15.7 something better i.e. wine, which is better than water (‘element’). 15.23–24 fruit from the trees of Paradise see the Qur’an 55.68, 76.14. 15.27–28 that which is forbidden to the Jews eating pig meat is forbidden in Leviticus 11.7–8. 15.28–29 the bondage of the old law of Moses Christians believe themselves freed from the strict rules of Mosaic law as laid down in Leviticus: ‘For the law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ’ (John 1.17). 15.30 Ave Maria Latin hail Mary. The opening words of a traditional prayer asking for Mary’s intercession with Jesus, derived from Luke 1.28, 42. 15.38 thy father Ishmael the Arabs consider themselves to be descended from Ishmael, Abraham’s son by the servant Hagar, who was driven away into the desert with his mother when Abraham’s wife, Sarah, gave birth to Isaac (Genesis 21.9–21). 15.38–39 The juice of the grape . . . cheers the heart of man compare Judges 9.13 and Psalm 104.15. 15.41 daily bread Matthew 6.11; Luke 11.3. 15.43 thine abstinence Muslims are required to be teetotal. 16.12–13 thy law . . . marriage to one single mate monogamy is enjoined by Paul in 1 Corinthians Ch. 7.

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16.13–15 be she sick or healthy . . . thy bed see ‘The Form of Solemnization of Matrimony’ in the Book of Common Prayer, where the couple promise to be faithful to each other ‘for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health’. 16.17–18 the patriarchal privileges . . . wisest of mankind Abraham had 3 wives (Sarah, Hagar, and Keturah), and Mohammed is said to have had at least 9. Solomon, son of David and King of Israel, was renowned for his wisdom: several books of the Old Testament are attributed to him (Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Solomon), as well as the book of Wisdom in the Apocrypha. According to 1 Kings 11.3 he had 700 wives and 300 concubines. 16.19–20 the black-eyed houris of Paradise beautiful women, said by some Muslims to dwell in paradise for the enjoyment of the faithful: see the Qur’an 44.51–57, 52.17–27, 55.46–78 and 56.22. The term houri means ‘black-eyed’ in Arabic. 16.26 Balsora and Bagdad Basra and Baghdad, both now in Iraq, the principal cities of the Middle East after 750. Baghdad was the capital of the empire under the Abbasid dynasty 750–1258. 16.27 what avails it to our purpose? what relevance does it [the signet ring] have to our discussion? 16.39 the Holy Caaba a square building in the centre of the Great Mosque at Mecca that houses the holy Black Stone, towards which all Muslims face when praying. 16.42 enchased with surrounded by. 17.6–9 what sayeth the poet Mansour . . . ceaseth to shine Hakim Abu al-Qasim Mansur Firdausi (c. 935–c.1020) was the author of the massive poetic chronicle Shanameh (Book of Kings). The adage is probably Scott’s own creation. 17.12–13 those of Europe . . . fealty and devotion in his ‘Essay on Chivalry’ Scott writes: ‘The next ingredient in the spirit of Chivalry, second in force only to the religious zeal of its professors, and frequently predominating over it, was a devotion to the female sex, and particularly to her whom each knight selected as the chief object of his affection, of a nature so extravagant and unbounded as to approach to a sort of idolatry’: Prose Works, 6.21–22. 17.14 haram this spelling had equal status with ‘harem’ up to Scott’s time. 17.22 an empty sepulchre the cave near Jerusalem where Christ was supposed to have been buried. 17.29 Richard of England see Historical Note, 373–74. 17.37 the Caaba see note to 16.39. 18.1 Saladin see Historical Note, 374. 18.9 stood with been consistent with. 18.20 king of kings Ottoman rulers had as one of their titles ‘Sultan of Sultans’. For the English equivalent see [James Justinian Morier], The Adventures of Hajii Baba, of Ispahan, 3 vols (London, 1824), 1.69, where a court poet’s proposal to write a ‘History of the King of Kings’ in imitation of Firdausi’s History of the Kings (see note to 188.36) was accepted by Aga Mohammed Shah: CLA, 259. 18.21 the cord either the hangman’s rope, or the cord used under Ottoman rule for strangling those condemned to death. 18.27 by the turban of the Prophet i.e. by Mohammed’s turban. The oath has not been found before Scott. 18.32–33 sow with salt . . . that time forward strewing salt would make the place infertile: see Judges 9.45.

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18.39–40 the black covering of my fathers’ tent black tents made of woven goat-hair and camel-hair still offer traditional hospitality in the deserts of the Middle East. 18.42 Theodorick of Engaddi a fictional character. En-gedi is referred to 6 times in the Old Testament; see especially 1 Samuel 24.1, where it is a ‘wilderness’. En-gedi is on the W bank of the Dead Sea. 19.7 the chosen saints i.e. chosen by God. 19.7–8 this land of promise and of miracle Palestine, the country promised to Abram (Abraham) and his descendants in Genesis 12.7, is called the ‘land of promise’ at Hebrews 11.9. It is also the land ‘of miracle’ because it was here that Jesus performed his miracles. 19.9–10 the Greeks and Syrians have much belied us Simon Ockley, The Conquest of Syria, Persia, and Ægypt (London, 1708), ix–x, makes the point that the history of this Muslim conquest had been told by Greeks (i.e. the historians of Constantinople) and was therefore biased: CLA, 238. 19.10–11 Abubeker Alwakel Abu Bakr al-Siddiq (c. 573–634), who succeeded Mohammed as first Caliph (successor) on the latter’s death in 632. He was responsible for consolidating the Muslim state in the Arabian peninsula, and then for initiating the spread of Islam through the conquest of Iraq and Syria. Alwakel means ‘deputy’, but he is usually known as al Siddik, the ‘truthful’ or ‘upright’. 19.11 after him i.e. after Mohammed. 19.12 true believers those who follow the Islamic path. The phrase is repeatedly used in the Qur’an, e.g. 8.2–4: ‘true believers are those whose hearts tremble with awe when God is mentioned, whose faith increases when His revelations are recited to them, who put their trust in their Lord, who keep up the prayer and give to others out of what We provide for them. Those are the ones who truly believe.’ 19.12–13 Yezed Ben Sophian Yezed, son of Sophian, i.e. Yezid Ibn Abi Sofyan (d. 640). Abu Bakr (see note to 19.10–11) gave him the initial command of the army sent to conquer Syria, then part of the Byzantine empire. 19.14–22 quit yourselves . . . tributaries see Simon Ockley, The Conquest of Syria, Persia, and Ægypt, 2 vols (London, 1708), 1.24–25 (CLA, 238): ‘Yezid, be sure you do not oppress your own People, nor make them uneasy, but advise with them in all your Affairs, and take Care to do that which is right and just, for those that do otherwise shall not prosper. When you meet with your Enemies, quit your selves like Men, and don’t turn your Backs; and if you get the Victory, kill no little Children, nor old People, nor Women. Destroy no Palm-Trees, nor burn any Fields of Corn. Cut down no Fruit-Trees, nor do any Mischief to Cattle, only such as you kill to eat. When you make any Covenant or Article, stand to it, and be as good as your Word. As you go on, you will find some religious Persons, that live retired in Monasteries, who propose to themselves to serve God that way: Let them alone, and neither kill them, nor destroy their Monasteries. And you will find another sort of People that belong to the Synagogue of Satan, who have shaven Crowns; be sure you cleave their Skulls, and give them no Quarter, till they either turn Mahometans or pay Tribute.’ The same speech is also to be found in Gibbon, 5.309–10 (Ch. 51), who cites Ockley, but as Gibbon does not specify the addressee Ockley is probably Scott’s source. 19.20 those with shaven crowns i.e. ordained priests or monks. ‘The shaving of all or part of the hair of the head, traditionally a distinctive feature of monks and clerics of the RC Church . . . was formerly prescribed in Canon Law . . . The cutting of hair, a religious ceremony of many E. peoples, became a generally received custom in 4th and 5th cent. monasticism and thence was introduced into the W. as the form of admission to the clerical state . . .

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in the 6th and 7th cents’ (‘Tonsure’, in The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, 2nd edn, ed. F. L. Cross and E. A. Livingstone (London, 1974), 1385). 19.20–21 the synagogue of Satan Ockley (see note to 19.14–22), 25, from Revelation 2.9, 3.9. St John uses the phrase of people in Smyrna and Philadelphia who pretend to be faithful Christians, but whose profanity and conduct show them to be hypocrites. 19.22 the Caliph i.e. Abu Bakr (see note to 19.10–11). Caliph is ‘the title given in Muslim countries to the chief civil and religious ruler, as successor of Muhammad’ (OED). 19.26 Issa Ben Mariam Arabic Jesus, son of Mary. 19.26 we are a shadow and a shield Muslims were expected to treat Jews and Christians (the ‘abl al-kitah’: the people of the book) honourably, as they all belonged to the same Abrahamic tradition: see the Constitution of Medina, drawn up in 622 by Muhammad, which was designed to bring the warring tribes of Medina and the Jews together into one community, the Ummah. See also the Qur’an 2.136: ‘So [you believers], say, “We believe in God and in what was sent down to us and what was sent down to Abraham, Ishmael, Isaac, Jacob, and the Tribes, and what was given to Moses, Jesus, and all the prophets by their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them, and we devote ourselves to Him.”’ 19.37–38 one of strange conditions at intervals someone apt to behave oddly from time to time. 19.42 the camel-driver of Mecca i.e. Mohammed, here referred to offensively. 20.4–5 the doctrine . . . spun from it the doctrine of the Trinity, including the assertion that Jesus was wholly divine as well as wholly human. To Muslims this is incompatible with strict monotheism. 20.6 a hard matter difficult. 20.9–10 bold battles . . . bright armour compare the opening of Lodovico Ariosto, Orlando Furioso, trans. William Stewart Rose, 8 vols (London, 1823–31: see CLA, 250), which was dedicated to Scott: ‘Of  and ,        and    , I sing,/ Of  , and many a           ’. 21.1 the Diamond of the Desert not identified. 21.7 You say truth you are right. 21.8–9 the river which feeds without filling it the River Jordan flows into the Dead Sea, but there is no exit since the incoming water evaporates. 21.41 Sheerkohf Shirkuh, lion of the mountain, a name by which Saladin’s uncle, Azad ad-Din Shirkuh bin Schahdi (d. 1169), was known. 21.42 Kurdistan the mountainous area in SE Turkey, and the N of Iran and Iraq, inhabited by Kurds. 21.43 Seljook Seljuq, the name of a Turkish dynasty powerful in the Middle East in the 11th–13th centuries. They created the state of Kurdistan c. 1150, and in 1169 the Kurd Saladin was appointed Vizier of Egypt by the Seljuq Emir of Aleppo and Damascus Nur al-Din, whom Saladin’s father and uncle had served as mercenaries. 22.4 Him whose word is victory Mohammed. 22.5–6 the King of Egypt and Syria Saladin proclaimed himself Sultan of Egypt and Syria in 1175. 22.9 was hardly pinched to furnish forth had difficulty in providing and arming. 22.38 a leathern belt and a pair of spurs distinctive signs of knighthood. See note to 68.35.

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23.17–18 a crossed shoulder a knight wearing the cross on his shoulder (see note to 3.10). 23.19 I will not promise for that I won’t make promises about that. 23.23–26 the true believers . . . Leon or Asturias in the early 8th century most of the Iberian peninsula came under Muslim rule. Asturias held out along the coast of the Bay of Biscay. From there, beginning in the 10th century, the Christians slowly built up the kingdom of Leon, covering much of NW Spain (including Asturias). 23.31 By the beard of my father the phrase occurs in a letter from Lord Byron to his mother, written in Constantinople on 28 June 1810: Private Correspondence, ed. R. C. Dallas (London, 1824), 107: CLA, 195. It is also found in Isaac Pocock (1782–1835), Nigel; or the Crown Jewels (London, 1823), 54 (Act 3, Scene 2). The play is derived from The Fortunes of Nigel, although the phrase is not in the novel. 24.1–2 two kings for one poor island England and Scotland were separate kingdoms until the accession of James VI of Scots to the throne of England as James I in 1603. 24.7–8 the cities of Zion probably the cities of the Holy Land, all of which were in Muslim control. Zion was originally the name of one of the hills in Jerusalem, but came to be used of the city itself, later figuratively of the Jewish faith, and then (as here) of Christianity. See Psalm 69.35: ‘For God will save Zion, and will build the cities of Judah’. 24.24 Mea culpa! mea culpa! Latin the fault is mine, the fault is mine. The words are used in the penitent’s acknowledgement of sin in the process of confession. 24.37 turning to the eastward Scott should probably have written ‘westward’, as the Dead Sea is to the E of them. 25.1–3 Dark caverns . . . Scripture e.g. see Judges 6.2, Job 30.6 and Isaiah 2.19. 25.7 as well of . . . as of both of . . . and of. 25.13–16 the awful wilderness . . . Son of Man the story of Jesus’s being tested by the devil in the desert is to be found at Matthew 4.2–11. ‘Son of man’ is an expression frequently used by Jesus of himself. 25.20–22 the waste and dry places . . . oppressed see Luke 11.24: ‘When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest’. 25.29–31 sonnets of love . . . luxuriating there is a huge body of early Arabic and Persian lyrics on love, from the work of Ubu Nuwas (c. 756–c. 814) to that of Hafiz (see next note), including much in the huge Kitab alaghani (The Book of Songs) compiled by Abu al-Faraj al-Isfahani (897–967). 25.34 liquid ruby Sir William Jones, ‘A Persian Song’, line 7, in A Grammar of the Persian Language (London, 1771), 132. In a footnote Jones comments: ‘a melted ruby is a common periphrasis for wine in the Persian poetry. See Hafiz, ode 22’. ‘A Persian Song’ (frequently anthologised) is a very loose imitation of the eighth ghazal (a short poem with a rhyme scheme aa, ba, ca etc.) of the great Persian lyricist, Mohammed Shams al-Din Hafiz, known as Hafiz or Hafez (c. 1325–c. 1390). The poem is included in Jones’s poems in Works of the English Poets, ed. Alexander Chalmers, 21 vols (London, 1810), 18.500–01: CLA, 42. 26.3 Rudhiki Abu Abdollah Jafar ibn Mohammed, known as Rudaki (c. 858–940 or 941), regarded as the first great poet to use modern Persian. It is not known why Scott attributes this ‘lay’ to Rudaki, but he did live before Saladin, unlike Hafiz. 26.3–4 he prefers the mole . . . Samarcand in Jones’s literal translation

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of the ode by Hafiz referred to in the note to 25.34, the first stanza reads: ‘If that lovely maid of Shiraz would accept my heart, I would give for the mole on her cheek the cities of Samarcand and Bokhara’: A Grammar of the Persian Language (London, 1771), 135. Both Samarkand and Bukhara (now in Uzbekistan) were wealthy cities on the silk route, the overland trading route leading from China to the Mediterranean. 26.12 Satan and his angels see Matthew 25.41 (‘the devil and his angels’): Satan and the other devils are fallen angels. 26.27–28 Song . . . path of the traveller unidentified: probably by Scott. The phrase ‘the dew of heaven’ appears 7 times in the Old Testament. It is very frequently found in 17th- and 18th-century literature, as are various versions of ‘the bosom of the desert’. 26.30 the gai science French version of Provençal gai saber; the joyous or happy science; the art of poetry. In the 14th century a guild of the same name was established at Toulouse to revive the classical art of the troubadours, which had flourished during the period of the novel’s action. 26.32 lais the lai, which in northern France flourished in the late 12th and 13th centuries, was ‘a long poem having nonuniform stanzas of about 6 to 16 or more lines of 4 to 8 syllables. One or two rhymes were maintained throughout each stanza’ (The New Encyclopædia Britannica, 15th edn, 29 vols (Chicago, 1974), 7.104). The sense here is probably less precise. 26.33–34 Valley of the Shadow of Death Psalm 23.4. 26.37 the Genii (Arabic jinn) spirits that were believed to influence human life for good or for ill. See d’Herbelot, 2.100: ‘Ces Génies, selon la Mythologie des Orientaux, ont été créez & ont gouverné le monde avant Adam. . . . Cette espèce de créatures, selon la même doctrine fabuleuse, comprend les bons & les mauvais Anges, & même les Géants qui ont fait la guerre aux hommes dans les premiers tems. Ils ont été depuis confinez dans un pays nommé à cause d’eux Ginnistan’. (These genies, according to oriental mythology, are supposed to have been created and to have ruled the world before Adam. . . . These creatures, according to the same fabulous teaching, include the good and bad angels, and even the giants who made war on men in the earliest times. They were thereafter restricted to a territory called Ginnistan after them). 26.38–39 one whose line . . . the immortal race Kurdish mythology asserts that their race is descended from the jinn, who in turn are the children of Satan. ‘Centuries ago, Solomon threw 500 of the magical spirits called jinn out of his kingdom and exiled them to the mountains of the Zagros [in SW Iran]. These jinn first flew to Europe to select 500 beautiful virgins as their brides and then went to settle in what became known as Kurdistan. This is just one of the myths which tries to explain how such a fair-skinned, light-haired people’ came to be living in that region (Margaret Kahn, Children of the Jinn (New York, 1980), xi). 26.41 the foul fiend the Devil. 27.2–3 the Evil One the Devil. 27.6–7 the Dark Spirit . . . his will the idea of Satan falling ‘headlong’ comes from Isaiah 14.12, and from Luke 10.18 (‘I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven’), via John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667; rev. 1674): ‘Him the Almighty Power/ Hurl’d headlong flaming from th’ Ethereal Sky/ With hideous ruin and combustion down/ To bottomless perdition’ (1.44–47). Scott’s western sources are paralleled in the Qur’an, e.g. 38.71–81: ‘Your Lord said to the angels, “I will create a man from clay. When I have shaped him and breathed from My Spirit into him, bow down before him.” The angels all bowed down together, but not Iblis [Satan], who was too proud. He became a rebel. God said, “Iblis, what prevents you from bowing down

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to the man I have made with My own hands? Are you too high and mighty?” Iblis said, “I am better than him; You made me from fire, and him from clay.” “Get out of here! You are rejected: My rejection will follow you till the Day of Judgment!” but Iblis said, “My Lord, grant me respite until the Day when they are raised from the dead,” so He said, “You have respite till the Appointed Day.” ’ 27.8 Eblis i.e. Iblis, one of the names of Satan in the Qur’an (see preceding note). It is the name of the satanic figure who rules an underworld, the entrance to which is situated in Istakhar (see note to 27.21) in William Beckford’s Vathek (An Arabian Tale [or] The History of the Caliph Vathek (London, 1786), 177–213: CLA, 44). He is invoked by Robert Southey in Thalaba the Destroyer (1801), 9.35–63, and by Byron in The Giaour (1813) who calls Eblis ‘the Oriental Prince of Darkness’ (note to line 750). 27.18–28.36 Know, brave stranger . . . throughout the universe for the main source of this story in d’Herbelot see Historical Note, 365–66. 27.18–19 Zohauk . . . Giamschid Jamshid was the fourth of the legendary Pishdadian kings of Persia. The similarly legendary Arabian prince Zohak was not a descendant, but the usurper of his throne: he had already appeared (with the devouring serpents) in Southey’s Thalaba the Destroyer (1801), 5.330–73. 27.21 Istakhar the ancient city of Istakhr, or Estakhr, in S Iran, about 40 km NE of Shiraz. D’Herbelot notes (1.660) that Giamschid was reputed to have been its founder, and that a subsequent ruler, Kischtab, carried out an extensive building programme there and ‘fit tailler dans le roc des sepulcres pour luy & pour ses successeurs’ (had rock graves hewn for himself and his successors). 27.30 Damavend Mount Damavand (5610m), the highest mountain in Iran, S of the Caspian Sea, and 66 km NE of Tehran. 27.42 the ascent which leads to the gates of Paradise for the gates of Paradise see the Qur’an 7.40, 39.73 and 54.11. 28.8 Zeineb the name was perhaps suggested by ‘The History of the Princess Zeineb and King Leopard’ (Weber, 3.687–704, continuing intermittently to 732). Thalaba’s mother in Southey’s Thalaba the Destroyer (1801) is called Zeinab. 28.10 Cothrob d’Herbelot (1.549) describes him as ‘Un Lutin, un Esprit follet, & quelquefois une maladie que nous appellons la Lycanthropie’ (a goblin, a crazy spirit, and sometimes an illness which we call lycanthropy). Lycanthropy is a form of madness where the sufferer imagines that he or she is a wolf. 28.11 Ginnistan mythical kingdom of the jinn: see note to 26.37. 28.11–14 I and my brethren . . . called Man see note to 27.6–7. 28.18 the sage Mithrasp not identified. 28.23–25 The fear of instant death . . . Pharaoh for the incident of Aaron’s rod see Exodus 7.8–12. The same story, but with Moses’ rod, appears 3 times in the Qur’an: 7.109–19, 20.61–69, 26.30–48. The ‘poet’ has not been identified: the saying may be Scott’s creation. 28.35 seven tribes of the Kurdmans these have not been located elsewhere. ‘Seven’ is a very common number in traditional tales. 28.37–38 the wild tale, of which Kurdistan still possesses the traces see note to 26.38–39. 29.7 By my father’s beard see note to 23.31. 29.11 Tugrut the place has not been identified, but Scott may have had in mind Saladin’s birthplace, Tikrit, 120 km NW of Baghdad in modern Iraq. 29.23 Arimanes, or the Evil Principle in Zoroastrianism, Ahriman

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(‘Destructive Spirit’) is opposed to Ormuzd (Ahura Mazda, ‘Wise Lord’), who will eventually prevail. 29.24 Ahriman the poem is probably by Scott; see also note to 30.39. 29.25 Irak in Scott’s day a province of Persia, centered on Esfahan, 300 km S of Tehran, not the modern Iraq. 29.41 spotted Pestilence James Thomson, Liberty (London, 1735–36), Part 4, line 719: CLA, 195; the expression occurs elsewhere, e.g. in Nahum Tate, The Ingratitude of a Common-Wealth (London, 1682), 36 (Act 3, line 412), and Nicholas Rowe, The Tragedy of Jane Shore (London, 1714), 45 (Act 4, scene 1). 30.24 our vale of tears this world. The expression ‘vale of tears’ is very common in literature from the 17th century to Scott’s time. 30.39 The worthy and learned clergyman probably a joking reference to the fictitious Josiah Cargill, whose The Siege of Ptolemais (i.e. the siege of Acre) was advertised on the last page of Saint Ronan’s Well, ed. Mark Weinstein,     16, 373. 30.46 the style of the translation is more paraphrastic a comment on the way in which Sir William Jones (see notes to 25.34 and 26.3–4) ‘translates’ Persian poetry: compare the Preface to [Sir Willam Jones], Poems consisting chiefly of Translations from the Asiatick Languages (Oxford, 1772), ii. 31.4–5 where Satan had stood rebuked . . . homage see Matthew 4.10: ‘Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve’. 31.12 the forest the use of forest to mean ‘wilderness’ is last recorded by OED in 1659. 31.15–17 the fauns and sylvans . . . ancient temples of Rome rural deities, the first with short horns and the tail of a goat, the second inhabiting woods and forests: the reference to these images in Rome is fanciful rather than specific. Scott here imagines that Sir Kenneth has travelled overland through Italy on his journey to the Holy Land, unlike Richard I, who sailed from Marseille. 31.38–39 the long-armed bit . . . a solid ring of iron such Arabian bits and curbs were not always harshly designed, but a severe Moroccan example is reproduced in [Henri Vincent] Descoins, L’Équitation arabe: ses principes, sa pratique (Paris, 1924), 147. 32.3 Hamako from Arabic, ahmaq, meaning ‘fool’, ‘idiot’, ‘madman’. 32.12–13 the foul fiend . . . the Author of Evil two terms for the Devil. 32.35 Ilderim the name is found in Gibbon (6.300–01: Ch. 64): ‘The character of Bajazet, the son and successor of Amurath, is strongly expressed in his surname of Ilderim, or the lightning; and he might glory in an epithet which was drawn from the fiery energy of his soul and the rapidity of his destructive march.’ 32.35–36 a twinkle in the star of thy nativity compare Much Ado about Nothing, 2.1.301–03. There is also a play on the nursery rhyme ‘The Star’ (‘Twinkle, twinkle little star’), by Jane Taylor (1783–1824), first published in [Anne and Jane Taylor], Rhymes for the Nursery (London, 1806), 10–11. 33.28 in very deed indeed; actually. 33.42–43 Mahound, Termagaunt imaginary gods which in the middle ages were held to be worshipped by Muslims, and in medieval literature often regarded as devils. 34.13–14 the well-known Eastern belief . . . immediate inspiration ‘An idiot or fool is generally regarded in the East by the common people, as

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an inspired being’: Thomas Patrick Hughes, A Dictionary of Islam (London, 1885), 301. 34.22–24 the lion and the leopard . . . their fangs see Isaiah 11.6: ‘The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them’. 34.24 Kyrie Eleison Greek Lord have mercy. The supplication is repeated several times at the beginning of the mass. 36.25–26 the gifts of God . . . is remembered see Ecclesiastes 3.13: ‘every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, it is the gift of God’. 36.40 Latin Christians Christians from Western Europe acknowledging the supremacy of the Pope. 36.41–42 those employed . . . the first crusade a Council of the Catholic Church held in Clermont, in France, from 18 to 27 November 1095 agreed to launch the First Crusade (1096–99), and although the formal records of the meeting are not extant one of its decrees makes it clear that liberating Jerusalem was the stated aim of the enterprise: see Louise and Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades: Idea and Reality, 1095–1274 (London, 1981), 37. In response to the Council’s call, Peter the Hermit (c. 1050–1115) inspired the mainly French participants by his eloquence and thousands of peasants (as well as well-armed knights and their retinues) took the cross. Peter himself participated in the hostilities. 37.3 had in charge from with which he was charged by. 37.17–18 the symptoms of insanity . . . inspiration see note to 34.13–14. 37.19–20 Hamako . . . Turkish see note to 32.3. 37.38 rashid Arabic, rasad observation post. The term is glossed by d’Herbelot (3.114). 38.20 Ilderim see note to 32.35. 39.4 kebla (Arabic, qibla), niche towards which the Muslim faithful face to pray in the direction of Mecca. 39.9 told his rosary said his prayers. A rosary is a string of 165 beads divided into 15 sets, each having ten small beads and one larger one, used in Catholic devotions to assist a sequence of prayer consisting of 15 decades of ‘Ave Maria’s’ (i.e. 15 sets of ten ‘Hail Mary’s). Each decade is preceded by a ‘Paternoster’ (Latin our Father, i.e. the Lord’s Prayer) and followed by a ‘Gloria Patri’ (‘Glory be to the Father’), these being prompted by the larger bead. 39.27 lingua franca see note to 8.19–21. 39.29 do on put on. 39.32 It needs not it is unnecessary. 39.34 the reed and the decayed gourd for the reed and the gourd which give no support or protection see Isaiah 36.6, and Jonah 4.6–7. 40.10–11 necessary prayers an expression common in the 16th and 17th centuries, meaning ‘useful’, ‘appropriate’, ‘effective’: see e.g. John Norden, A Pensiue Man’s Practice. Very profitable for all persons: wherein are contained verie deuout and necessarie prayers for sundry godly purposes, 2nd edn (London, 1615). 40.12 the penitential psalms Psalms 6, 32, 38, 51, 102, 130 and 143. This is a traditional grouping all appealing for God’s mercy and sung on Ash Wednesday and Fridays in Lent. 40.27 inquired for sought. 40.36 without doors outside.

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41.7 kings begged of a beggar from the proverb ‘it’s folly to beg of a beggar’: compare ODEP, 40. 41.34–35 the trumpet shall be heard see 1 Corinthians 15.51–54. 41.35 the dream shall be dissolved see 2 Peter 3.10–12. 42.16–17 Put off thy shoes . . . holy see Exodus 3.5. 42.17–19 Banish . . . impiety see Romans 8.6–8. 43.13–16 a double folding door . . . the two folding doors the expression is confusing, but it would seem that there is a single door with two flaps (the usual significance of ‘folding doors’ in Scott). 43.17 Vera Crux Latin the true cross. This has a special resonance in the context of the Third Crusade. At the battle of Hattin (1187) Saladin captured a prized relic of the true cross belonging to the Kingdom of Jerusalem. The recovery of the precious relic became a major factor in recruiting support for the Crusade, and after the fall of Acre Saladin’s failure to restore it to the Crusaders led to Richard’s executing 3000 prisoners. The relic was never restored and subsequently disappeared. 43.18 Gloria Patri (Latin, Glory to the Father), the first words of the most common doxology in use in Western Christianity: ‘Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto,/ Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen’, which is translated by the Book of Common Prayer as ‘Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost:/ As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: world without end. Amen’. 44.10–12 a small silver bell . . . the mass in the central action of the Mass, a small bell is rung to announce that the newly consecrated bread (‘host’, from the Latin hostis, meaning ‘sacrifice’) is raised up by the celebrating priest for the congregation to see. 44.31 four beautiful boys this detail suggests that Scott may be drawing imaginatively on a much more sensual description in ‘The Second Adventure of the Merchant Abudah, in the Groves of Shadaski’ (Weber, 3.434): ‘Ere long the softest music began to sound, a hundred choristers in masquerade habits entered the assembly, singing the pleasures of women, company, and wine. These were followed by forty young maidens, scattering roses and violets around; after which came forward, under a canopy supported by twelve beautiful boys, the Queen of Pleasures’. The story is one of the Tales of the Genii, 2 vols (London, 1764) by James Ridley (although ascribed to Sir Charles Morrell on the title page). The earlier flying open of the shrine was perhaps suggested in this context by a chest with fifty locks on the next page in Weber: ‘The locks, being only touched by the keys, flew from their staples’. 44.39–40 nuns of the order of Mount Carmel an ascetic Order founded in Palestine c. 1154 by St Berthold. 45.7–11 Most of them had been suppressed . . . consecrated them this is not implausible. At the end of the Third Crusade Saladin agreed to allow the Latin rite to continue to be practised at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, and also at Bethlehem and Nazareth. Mohammed himself had guaranteed protection for St Catherine’s Monastery at Sinai, and it was common practice for Christians and Jews (as ‘People of the Book’) to be allowed to practise their faith in territory under Muslim control, on payment of a capitation fee. 47.43 the sun which he adores the sun-god Mithras was the most important deity in Persia from the 6th century  until the acceptance of Christianity by the Emperor Constantine in the early 4th century  . 48.18 the high-born Edith an imaginary character: see Historical Note, 372. 48.40 The etiquette, to use a modern phrase the first instance in English usage of ‘etiquette’ recorded by OED is dated 1750, and for some

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years after that it was still considered as a French term. 49.6–7 King’s daughter of Hungary . . . squire of low degree from the opening lines (‘It was a squyer of lowe degrè/ That loved the kings doughter of Hungrè’) of the Middle English verse romance ‘The Squyr of Lowe Degre’ in Ancient Engleish Metrical Romanceës, ed. Joseph Ritson, 3 vols (London, 1802), 3.145: CLA, 174. 49.35–36 free-masonry of love freemasons are said to make themselves known to each other through a series of secret signs. 50.13–17 motto see Thomas Warton, ‘Ode IX: The Crusade’, in Poems, new edn with additions (London, 1777), 61 (lines 75–78): see CLA, 42. 50.16 Ashtaroth and Termagaunt the first is a Canaanite fertility goddess, mentioned 5 times in the Old Testament as a false god (Judges 2.13, 10.6; 1 Samuel 7.3, 7.4, 12.10). For Termagaunt see note to 33.42–43. 51.12–14 the popular creed . . . caverns of the earth according to Scott in Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft (London, 1830), 121–22, gnomes ‘haunted the dark and solitary places, and were often seen in the mines’, and sometimes exhibited ‘a darker and more malignant character, than the elves’. 52.12 Nectanabus an Egyptian Pharaoh who, in the Greek narrative on the exploits of Alexander the Great attributed to Pseudo Callisthenes, was also a magician and astrologer. Scott would have known of him from any of several medieval sources including the medieval metrical romance Kyng Alisaunder, where the Pharaoh is called ‘Neptanabus’: see Metrical Romances of the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Centuries, ed. Henry Weber, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1810), 2.1–327: CLA, 43. 52.12 abortive-seeming appearing to have been born prematurely. 52.14 night-crow ‘a bird supposed to croak or cry in the night and to be of evil omen; prob. an owl or nightjar’ (OED). 52.15 Guenevra a form of Guinevere, the name of the queen of the largely legendary 6th-century British king Arthur. 52.21 the twelfth Imaum . . . Mahommed Mohadi the Shi’ites believe that Mohammed designated his son-in-law Ali as his successor, and that there was thereafter a succession of imams or spiritual leaders of Islam. The twelfth imam, Mohammed al-Mahdi al-Hujjah, ‘disappeared’ in 878, but Shi’ites believe that he was deliberately hidden by God (the ‘occultation’) and will return to restore justice before the end of the world. 52.23 the Holy City Mecca, birthplace of Mohammed. 52.23–24 the City of Refuge Medina, to which the Prophet moved in 622. 52.29 his coffin in legend Mohammed’s coffin was suspended in midair at Medina without support. 52.29 ass of Issachar Issachar was one of Jacob’s sons. His father says he ‘is a strong ass couching between two burdens’ (i.e. he is indolent): Genesis 49.14. 52.30–31 King Arthur . . . field of Avalon British legend held that Arthur (see note to 52.15), though dead, was waiting to return to claim his kingdom once more. According to Geoffrey of Monmouth (d. 1155), author of the Historia rerum Britanniae published between 1135 and 1139, the injured Arthur was carried mysteriously from his last battle to the Isle of Avalon (later identified with Glastonbury in Somerset) to recover from his wounds: see The British History, Translated into English From the Latin of Jeffrey of Monmouth, trans. Aaron Thompson (London, 1718), 357–58 (Bk 11, Ch. 2): CLA, 244. 52.34 King Guy of Jerusalem see note to 97.19–21. 54.20–22 first motto unidentified; probably by Scott.

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54.23–24 second motto Exeter Change (Exchange) was built on the N side of the Strand in 1676. From 1773 until its demolition in 1829 it housed a menagerie, which was the only place in London other than the Tower of London where the public could see wild animals. Scott introduces his English Lion in this chapter with the showman’s invitation to the passing public to view the collection. 54.27 Saint Jean d’Acre Akko, a coastal fortress in the N of the Holy Land captured by Baldwin I in 1104, during the First Crusade, and named St Jean d’Acre. Saladin re-captured it in 1187, but lost it to the Crusading forces in 1191. 54.27 Ascalon Ashqelon, on the coast N of Gaza, 150 km S of Acre. It was held by the Franks from 1153 and was the focus of much military activity. Saladin retook it in 1191. 54.28 the Lion Heart see Historical Note, 373–74 and note to 114.34. 54.36 Philip of France see Historical Note, 372–73. 55.3 the dissolute licence of the crusaders see Mills, 2.30: ‘The Crusaders were seemingly devout, but in reality were dissolute, and compromised for personal excesses by pharisaical scrupulosity and uncharitableness’. 55.25 the well of Bethlehem, longed for by King David see 2 Samuel 23.15, where the Philistine occupation of Bethlehem keeps David out of his home town. 56.26–27 come between the dragon and his wrath see King Lear, 1.1.121. 56.29 Thomas de Multon a historical figure, who died before 1198. However, he was not lord of Gilsland: his grandson, also Thomas (d. 1271), became lord of Gilsland by marrying Maud de Vaux. He appears as one of Richard’s military commanders in the Anglo-Norman romance Richard Coer de Lyon (see Historical Note, 366–67), but Scott does not draw any details about him from that work. 56.34 Gilsland village about 25 km NE of Carlisle. In the late 18th century it had a reputation as a spa; Scott met his future wife there in September 1797. 56.37 Lord de Vaux see note to 56.29. 56.43–57.1 the various domestic factions . . . asunder England had been divided by civil war under Stephen in the 1130s and 1140s; in 1173–74 Queen Eleanor (along with ‘the young King’, Henry II’s heir apparent) was involved in the widespread revolt against her husband Henry II; in 1186–88 Henry’s sons Richard and John were in rebellion against their father, and although the battles were in France knights from England fought in support of Henry. 57.25–28 his bright blue eye . . . yellow hair the description comes from Henry, 5.227: ‘In his person he is described by one who was intimately acquainted with him to have been tall, strong, and handsome; his countenance fair and comely; his eyes blue and sparkling; his hair yellow; and his air stately and majestic’. 57.40–42 his hair . . . the Philistines see Judges 16.19. 58.6–7 His upper lip . . . moustaches see note to 13.16–18. 58.12–13 the cross . . . shoulder see note to 3.10. 58.37–38 the three lions passant . . . monarch the three lions passant guardant are still the emblem of the English monarch. They first appear on the second great seal of Richard I (1198). The heraldic term passant means ‘walking’, and is used of an animal with one paw raised and looking forwards. The royal lions are ‘passant guardant’, looking towards the spectator. 58.41 tiara kind of ornamental turban.

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58.43 a weighty curtal-axe a curtal-axe was a heavy slashing sword. But it is likely that Scott took it to be a battle-axe, as in The Bridal of Triermain (1813), 3.13.7–10: ‘A weighty curtal-axe he bare;/ The baleful blade so bright and square,/ And the tough shaft of heben wood,/ Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued’ (Poetical Works, 11.106). The head of Richard’s battle-axe is said to have weighed 20 pounds (45 kg): Richard Coer de Lion, lines 2199–2202 (Metrical Romances of the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Centuries, ed. Henry Weber, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1810), 2.86). 60.11–12 that dull Austrian Leopold V (1157–94), Duke of Austria from 1177: see Historical Note, 372. 60.12 him of Montserrat see Historical Note, 371–72. 60.12 the Hospitallers the Knights Hospitaller, or Knights of St John of Jerusalem, an organisation which began around 1080 in Jerusalem to provide care for poor, sick or injured pilgrims to the Holy Land. After the First Crusade it was formally instituted by papal bull in 1113, and gradually became a military order charged with defending the Holy Land against Islam. After the loss of Acre in 1291 and the Western abandonment of the Holy Land, the Order moved first to Cyprus, then to Rhodes, later again to Malta, and finally to Rome. 60.12–13 the Templars the popular name of the Pauperes Commilitones Christi Templique Solomonici (Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon), a military order founded in 1119 or 1120 to protect pilgrims to the Holy Land. It was originally based near the site of the former temple of Solomon in Jerusalem. The Order became immensely wealthy and attracted many enemies who accused it of being corrupt and eventually succeeded in having it suppressed by Pope Clement V in 1312. 60.20 without doors outside. 60.22 Bethink you consider. 61.6 the last sacrament extreme unction, one of the 7 sacraments recognised by the Catholic Church: a dying person is anointed with oil to symbolise the forgiveness of sins and the strengthening of the mind and spirit before death. 61.10–11 of France and Navarre this was the title of the French kings from 1589, when the kingdoms of France and Navarre N of the Pyrenees were united in the person of Henry IV, until the Revolution in 1789. At the time of the novel’s action the more extensive kingdom of Navarre, or Navarra, straddling the Pyrenees, was not under French control. 61.11 Dennis Montjoie ‘Montjoie St Denis’, the war-cry of the French. Its origin is uncertain. 61.11 his Most Christian Majesty in his The History of Lewis the Eleventh, trans. Edward Grimeston, 2 vols (London, 1614), P. Mathieu notes (2.70) that ‘The Kings of France cary [sic] the Title of Most Christian since Clovis [465–511, King of the Franks]’, and that Charles the Bald (823–77) had used the title at his coronation in 843. 61.13 En arrière . . . en avant French forward . . . back. 61.15–16 oppressing his feudatories, and pillaging his allies the comment reflects Richard’s own relationship with Philip: as Count of Artois Richard had paid feudal allegiance to Philip, and had several times been in alliance with him against his father Henry II. On his return home Philip embarked on a long campaign which was to result in his acquiring control of most of the Plantagenet territories in France. 61.18 the Arch-Duke of Austria see note to 60.11–12. Austria did not become an archduchy until 1453. 61.23 the courage of a wren proverbial: compare James Kelly, A Complete Collection of Scotish Proverbs Explained and made Intelligible to the English

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Reader (London, 1721), 36 (CLA, 169), who on the proverb ‘As sore feights Wrens as Cranes’ provides the gloss: ‘Little People (if rightly match’d) will fight as bitterly and eagerly as those who are stronger or bigger’. Compare also ODEP, 753, and Christopher Marlowe, Edward II, 5.3.34: ‘The Wrenne may strive against the Lions strength’. 61.24 a flagon of Rhenish Hamlet, 5.1.169. 61.25 baaren-hauters German Bärenhäuter (bears-hider, hence lazybones). The Dryburgh Edition, generally following the Grimms’ dictionary, interprets this as a nickname given to the Lanzknechte, or Landsknechte, at the time of the Thirty Years War (1618–48), from their fondness for lying stretched at lazy ease on a bear-skin or similar rug, until they became as lazy as a bear in winter. 61.25 lance-knechts lancemen (German Lanzknechte). The original German term was Landsknechte (landsmen), serfs employed as soldiers by nobles of the Holy Roman Empire, first organised by Maximilian I in 1487. By the 17th century it had come to indicate German mercenaries. 61.34 Beau-Seant the battle cry and motto of the Templars. The term is derived from le gonfalon baussant, the name of the silver and black gonfalon, or banner, of the Knights Templar, with baussant used in its original sense meaning ‘half one colour, half another’; the form beau-seant was a later corruption of the word. In Ivanhoe (1820) Scott uses the expression as a battle-cry (see 112.6), and later explains: ‘the sacred standard, called Le Beau-seant, . . . was the ensign, as its name was the battle-cry, of the Templars’ (ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 382.34–35). 61.35 Brother Giles Amaury see Historical Note, 371. 61.39–42 an idolater . . . darkness ‘The Knights Templars then were accused of renouncing, at the time of their matriculation, God, Jesus Christ, the Virgin, and all the saints. It was said, that the brethren used often to spit and trample on the cross, in proof of their contempt of Christ, who was crucified for his own crimes and not for the sins of the world. Out of their disdain of God and his Son, they adored a cat, and certain wooden and golden idols. The master [though not a priest] could absolve brethren from sins’ (Mills, 2.303). These unfounded allegations were not made until the beginning of the 14th century: see Peter Partner, The Murdered Magicians: The Templars and their Myth (Oxford, 1982), 54–85. 61.43 The Grand Master . . . Jerusalem the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitallers from 1190 to 1192 was Garnier de Naplous (i.e. Nablus). 62.13 Conrade of Montserrat see Historical Note, 371–72. 63.6 lay lance in rest see note to 6.32. 63.13 lelies ‘This, which is a running together of the words La illah Allah [There is no God but Allah], is the profession of faith, and the warcry of the Saracens’: William Stewart Rose, endnote to line 18 of ‘St. Lewis’, in The Crusade of St. Lewis, and King Edward the Martyr (London, 1810), [11]: CLA, 186. 63.36 holding them to responsibility holding them responsible for the outcome. 64.2–6 motto see ‘The Ancient Ballad of Chevy-Chace’ (Child, 162), lines 173–76, in Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, [ed. Thomas Percy], 4th edn, 3 vols (London, 1794), 1.17: CLA, 172. The expression the march parts means ‘the Border regions’. 64.7–12 A considerable band . . . intermarriage under David I, King of Scots from 1124 to 1153, many Anglo-Norman families were introduced into Scotland and a feudal system established. These incomers would have spoken Anglo-Norman (French as spoken in England). But, according to

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Alan Macquarrie, ‘relatively few Scots are known to have joined the third Crusade’: Scotland and the Crusades 1097–1560 (Edinburgh, 1997), 28. This he attributes to the fact that the Crusade was ‘closely associated with England’ (31), and perhaps to ‘the lack of a highly developed machinery for propagating’ it (32). 64.13 the grasping ambition of Edward I. Edward (1239–1307), King of England from 1272, conquered Wales in 1282–83. In 1296 he turned his attention north, and by 1304 had apparently succeeded in annexing Scotland; but from 1306 there was renewed Scottish resistance under King Robert, culminating in the defeat of the English army at Bannockburn in 1314, though it was not until 1328 that a peace treaty was agreed. 64.30 William of Scotland see note to 85.27. 64.41–65.1 Like the contending Roman chiefs . . . no superiority see Lucan (c.  115–c. 200), Pharsalia, 1.125–26: ‘Nec quemquam iam ferre potest, Caesarve priorem/ Pompeiusve parem’ (Caesar can now brook no superior and Pompey no equal). 65.7–9 The same disunion . . . Danes and Swedes disunity during the Third Crusade between Italians and Germans, and between Danes and Swedes, has not been located elsewhere, but Scott may be recalling the long-running conflicts between Guelphs and Ghibellines (respectively supporters of the Holy Roman Empire and the Pope) in N Italy, and between Denmark and Sweden. 65.18–19 the old English mastiff see Henry V, 3.7.137–38: ‘That island of England breeds very valiant creatures; their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage’. 65.31–32 their frequent allies, the French it was not until 1295 that Scotland and France concluded the first formal treaty of the ‘Auld Alliance’. 66.5–6 in some sort to some extent. 66.7–8 the charity of Scripture, which suffereth long see 1 Corinthians 13.4. 66.22–23 the pipes, shalms, and kettle-drums of the Saracens ‘The musical display of the Saracens is described by one Crusader as comprising trumpets, clarions, horns, pipes, drums, cymbals—a prodigious array, creating a horrible noise and clamour’: Henry George Farmer, The Rise and Development of Military Music (London, 1912), 13. Farmer also highlights ‘the Saracen side drum and kettle drum, which were then unknown in European military music’. The shalm, a primitive oboe intended for outdoor use, was a development of the Arab zurna. Farmer’s information comes from Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, a prose narrative in Latin of Richard’s activities during the Third Crusade. It was formerly attributed to Geoffrey de Vinsauf (the ‘one Crusader’ above), but is now thought to be a compilation derived from other works. In the second half of the 18th century this combination of instruments was widely introduced into European military bands and also used to produce an oriental or ‘Turkish’ sound in concert music and opera. 67.4 I have in charge to speak with you probably I am charged with speaking to you; i.e. I have to speak to you. 67.5–6 say your pleasure, so it be shortly spoken say what you want to say, provided it is brief. 67.17 northern hostelrie Scottish inn. In his note to Marmion, Canto 3, stanza 2, Scott says that in the reign of James I (1406–37) legislation was passed requiring ‘in all boroughs and fairs there be hostellaries’, and in another act ‘that no man, travelling on horse or foot, should presume to lodge anywhere except in these hostellaries’ (Poetical Works, 7.145). 67.20–21 cause me to pass over a bearing . . . to endure make me

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ignore behaviour which in other circumstances I would not tolerate. 67.32 El Hakim Arabic the doctor. 67.39 some order taken some arrangements made. 68.21 they will come on evil errand i.e. they will be assumed to have malicious intent, and will be dealt with accordingly. 68.27 All Scots are ennobled by their birth-right a sarcastic remark, meaning that a Scotsman’s sense of his own worth arises from his pedigree rather than wealth. Compare Scott’s remark in his ‘Memoirs’ (in Scott on Himself, ed. David Hewitt (Edinburgh, 1981), 2): ‘Every Scotishman has a pedigree. It is a national prerogative as inalienable as his pride and his poverty.’ 68.35 belted knight the belt is often associated with knighthood. The expression ‘belted knight’ occurs in several ballads and in Robert Burns, ‘Is there, for honest Poverty’ (1795), line 25. Its significance is explained by John Ferne in The Blazon of Gentrie (London, 1586), 109: ‘in later times, the insignes and marks of Knighthood . . . are obserued, to be a girdle and sword gilded, and girded to his side: as also, a paire of spurres gilt, to signifie . . . the reward of his horsemanship, and that he is a Cheualier. What honor consisteth in this girdle and sword, is to be perceiued by this, . . . he ought to be girded with this girdle and sword, by the hands of the Soueraigne . . . Very aptly is this girdle . . . added to the ornament of a Knight, as a signe of his degree, since that it is expedient to a man, that taketh in hand any businesse of difficultie, or important labour, and especially he that goeth a warfare, to gird his loines, for, the idle and sluggish person (as the wiseman saith) goeth loose and vngirt.’ 69.13 I nothing doubt I do not doubt (emphatic). 69.40–41 harps . . . palms see Revelation 7.9, 14.2 and 15.2. 70.15 swallow-tailed pennon deeply-forked long flag 70.24–28 pity . . . akin . . . to love see Thomas Southerne, Oroonoko (London, 1696), 23 (2.2.61): ‘Pity’s a-kin to Love’; see also Twelfth Night, 3.1.120: ‘Viola. I pity you./ Olivia. That’s a degree to love’. 70.41–42 a blue cap or bonnet compare, in a late 15th-century setting, Quentin Durward (1823), ed. J. H. Alexander and G. A. M. Wood,     15, 30.4–6: ‘the smart blue bonnet . . . was already recognized as the Scottish head-gear’. 71.1 barley-bread see note to 14.42. 71.5 stag greyhound deer-hound; large dog used for hunting deer. Scott’s dog, Maida, who died in October 1824 during the composition of this novel, was such a creature. 71.17 tolpach telpek, a word in use in several central Asian Turkic languages for a lambskin hat. Scott may have learnt the term from Sir John Malcolm, former Ambassador to Persia, who stayed at Abbotsford in October 1824. 71.18 Astracan city in Central Asia famed for its fine-grained lamb’s wool. 72.6 Issa Ben Mariam Arabic Jesus, son of Mary. 72.9–10 the hour when the Muezzin calls . . . to evening prayer i.e. sunset. 72.18–19 the sick chamber . . . kingdom of the physician a version of the commonplace ‘the doctor is king’. 73.4 Master of the Horse court official in charge of the provision of and for horses. 73.7 forest-laws special laws controlling hunting that applied in royal forests. 73.20 Roswal Scott took the name from the romance Roswal and Lillian;

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George Ellis includes a summary in his Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances, 3 vols (London, 1805), 3.371–83: CLA, 105. Scott also owned a transcript of this work by Ellis (CLA, 104), as well as a version edited by David Laing (Edinburgh, 1822: CLA, 104), which reprints the 1663 edition. A chapbook version of the romance was among those collected by Scott as a boy: James C. Corson, ‘Scott’s Boyhood Collection of Chapbooks’, Bibliotheck, 3 (1962), 207. 73.25–26 the lion in the minstrel fable . . . to himself in Aesop’s fable ‘of the lyon and of the cowe/ of the goote and of the sheep’ the lion devours the entire hart which has been collaboratively hunted: Caxton’s Aesop, ed. R. T. Lenaghan (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1967), 77 (1.6). 73.31 vert and venison a set phrase: ‘vert’ is any vegetation in a forest suitable as covering for deer (‘venison’). 73.36 Robin Hood legendary outlaw whose deeds are alluded to in literature from the late 14th century onwards, and who appears in Ivanhoe (1820). 73.39 Wild work rash, imprudent and unreasonable conduct. 73.41 mad world King John, 2.1.561. 74.1 were it no offence provided it does not offend you. 74.2 mend your cheer improve your provisions. 74.3 it needs not it isn’t necessary. 74.12–14 motto see Alexander Pope, The Iliad of Homer (1715–20), 11.637–38. 74.19 to gather much truth probably, to find much trustworthiness. 74.20 fair and false compare the proverbs ‘As false as a Scot’ (Ray, 221; ODEP, 243), ‘Fair without, false within’ (ODEP, 240), and ‘There is many a fair thing full false’ (Ray, 305; ODEP, 240). 74.22 in conscience in fairness. 74.33 the vanity of the praise of man compare Ecclesiastes 6.2: ‘A man to whom God hath given riches, wealth, and honour, . . . this is vanity’. 74.34 but a vapour see James 4.14: ‘It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away’, although the sentence is applied to ‘your life’ in James. 74.39–40 breath of his nostrils see Genesis 2.7. 75.17–18 the noble art of venerie hunting with hounds (‘venerie’) was the prerogative of the nobility. The phrase forms part of the title of a book owned by Scott: [George Turbervile,] The Noble Art of Venerie or Hvnting, 2nd edn (London, 1611): CLA, 105. 75.25 cote in hare-coursing one dog cotes or passes another in order to turn the hare back. Scott uses the term to refer to a dog outstripping the hunted animal. 76.6 as errant knights are wont see note to 9.2–16; errant knights are knights who travel around seeking adventures. 76.17 letters of credence formal diplomatic documents carried by the representative of a foreign ruler to confirm his status. 76.18 Giacomo Loredani probably an imaginary figure. 76.22 Out upon expression of rejection or reproach. 76.24–25 the Light and Refuge of the earth although this sounds a probable mode of address, it has not been found elsewhere. 76.25 Melec Ric King Richard; malik is Arabic for ‘king’. 76.32 Azrael the Islamic angel of death (see the Qur’an 32.11), although the actual name does not appear there. 76.35 all that is not written on his forehead see Weber, 2.135 (‘The Story of Baharkan, the Intemperate’): ‘their doom is written on their foreheads’. Adonbec el Hakim can do everything except what has been ordained. 76.38 Frangistan literally, land of the Franks. Muslims at the time of

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the Crusades used the term to refer to the Christian West in general; it is derived from Farang which is the Persianised form of ‘Frank’, plus istan, a suffix used as now to indicate a country. 77.3–4 dog of a Prophet John Dryden, Don Sebastian, King of Portugal (1690), Act 1, Scene 1; included in The Works of John Dryden, ed. Walter Scott, 18 vols (London, 1808), 7.318. 77.17 behink you consider; remember. 77.31 at pledge at risk. 77.35 tambours . . . trumpets sounding compare Robert Southey, The Curse of Kehama (1810), 1.191: ‘The tambours and the trumpets sound’. 77.40 The Archbishop of Tyre Joscius or Josias, Archbishop of Tyre from c. 1185 to 1202. After the fall of Jerusalem in 1187 it was he who travelled west to get the Pope and western monarchs to mount a new Crusade. 78.10–11 we lawfully make slaves of heathen captives in the middle ages Christians were not supposed to enslave fellow-Christians, but nonChristians might be so treated: see Marc Bloch, Slavery and Serfdom in the Middle Ages (Berkeley, 1975), 24–25. 78.13 ship of Alexandria Acts 27.6. 78.16 Nisi . . . potestis Acts 27.31 in the Vulgate: the words of St Paul to the centurion when the ship in which he was being taken to Rome came near to foundering on the coast of Malta and the sailors were about to abandon ship. 78.17 Unless . . . saved see Acts 27.31 in the Authorised Version. 78.21–22 Quod erat demonstrandum Latin that was to be proved. The phrase, a commonplace of schoolboy mathematics, was used at the end of the successful proof of a problem. 79.2–3 pouncet-box small box with a perforated lid for holding perfume: I Henry IV, 1.3.38. 79.4 dried rosemary steeped in vinegar an ancient specific against contagious disease. See e.g. [William Lewis], The New Dispensatory, 2nd edn (London, 1765), 291: ‘It is not to be doubted, that vinegar impregnated with antiseptic vegetables, will contribute greatly to prevent the effects of contagious air’. 79.13 of a surety assuredly. 79.15 charges of weight weighty responsibilities. 79.16 esquire of the body the personal attendant upon a knight. 80.7 Salam alicum Arabic (as-sala alaykum) peace be upon you. This is a normal greeting in the East. 80.15 Ulemat Arabic properly ulema, a plural noun meaning the body of the learned. Here, Scott makes El Hakim use it as a singular, meaning ‘religious scholar’ or ‘wise man’. 80.36 an hundred revolutions of the Hegira 100 lunar years. The Hegira (Arabic, hejira) was the emigration (often referred to as the ‘flight’) of the Prophet from Mecca to Medina in 622. The Muslim calendar commences from this date, with 12 lunar months making a year of about 345 days. 81.4 ocular proof Othello, 3.3.364. The phrase is also used many times in Restoration drama. 81.12 Azrael see note to 76.32. 81.17–18 his astrolabe, the oracle of eastern science astronomical instrument for measuring altitudes of stars, which could be used for determining local time. 81.41 the red cross the Crusader red cross and the red cross of St George, patron saint of England, were the same. 81.43 Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum Latin may the blessing of the Lord be with you.

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82.27 Frangistan see note to 76.38. 82.27 made of other clay Philip Massinger (1583–1640), The Guardian (London, 1655), 7: 1.1.178. 85.27 William the Lion of Scotland 1143–1214, King of Scots from 1165. His soubriquet of ‘Lion’ (which was not contemporary) may have referred to his physical strength (the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography observes that he was called ‘the lion of justice’ in the 14th century), or to his adoption of the lion rampant on his royal standard: Scott gives this latter version in Tales of a Grandfather (Prose Works, 22.53–54). 86.7 who have credit of the Lombards in the later middle ages in Europe, Lombards (from Lombardy in N Italy) controlled most of the banking and money-lending. 86.10 It skills not asking my leave it’s not necessary to ask for my permission. 86.13 and please you begging your pardon. 86.15 and you list to trust me and it pleases you to trust me. 86.15 on frist in the future. 86.17 I dread me I fear. 86.19 the line of Anjou Richard was the grandson of Geoffrey of Anjou, who had married the daughter of Henry I. 87.2 an it please if it pleases. 87.11 By the mass oath (‘by the Eucharist’): used e.g. in Chaucer and Shakespeare. 87.17–26 I have restored the fortresses . . . Canterbury William the Lion (see note to 85.27) was captured by Henry II at Alnwick in 1174, and by the Treaty of Falaise was forced to accept Henry as his feudal overlord, and to relinquish control of the castles at Edinburgh, Stirling, Jedburgh, Roxburgh and Berwick to the English. By the ‘Quitclaim’ of Canterbury, signed in December 1189 just before leaving for the Third Crusade, Richard I cancelled the overlordship and restored Roxburgh and Berwick (the only two still occupied by England) in return for 10,000 merks, money which helped to finance Richard’s campaign. Roxburgh Castle was near Kelso in the Scottish Borders; Berwick is now in the extreme NE of England. The expression lay in pledge to means ‘were held as security by’. 88.3 Saint Andrew disciple of Christ some of whose remains (according to tradition) were brought in the 8th century to the settlement now called St Andrews. He became patron saint of Scotland. 88.6 Saint George legendary warrior knight, adopted (according to tradition) as patron of his army in Palestine by Richard, and becoming patron saint of England in the reign of Edward III (1327–77). See note to 111.27. 88.23–24 hold madmen for the inspired of Heaven see note to 34.13–14. 89.16 Berengaria, Queen of England see Historical Note, 371. 90.1–2 as when her kings were anointed by the decree of Heaven itself see Samuel’s anointing of Saul and David on the commandment of God: 1 Samuel 9.15–16, 16.12–13. See also the anointing of Solomon by Zadok the priest and Nathan the prophet: 1 Kings 1.32–40. 90.8 The Grand Master of the Templars see Historical Note, 371. 90.8–9 the Marquis of Montserrat see Historical Note, 371–72. 90.11 Jocelyn a male name in the middle ages. 90.13 steel mirror mirror made of polished steel. Glass mirrors did not come into use until the 16th century. 90.18 the foul fiend the Devil. 90.26 that singular body for the Templars see note to 60.12–13. 90.29–39 accused of heresy . . . paganism for the accusations see note

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to 61.39–42. Most Templars were not priests: they had chaplains to minister to their spiritual needs. 90.35–37 baculus . . . singular conjectures a baculus (medieval Latin) is a staff. In his anonymous article ‘Mysterium Baphometis Revelatum’ (The secret of Baphomet revealed) in Fundgruben des Orients (Vienna), 6 (1818), 3–120 (CLA, 249), Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall states that the Templars made use of a baculus in the form of a truncated cross (T), allegedly a phallic symbol in the Gnostic tradition, and associated with the androgynous idol Baphomet (the name is a corruption of ‘Mohammed’) whom the Templars were accused at their trial in 1307 of worshipping. See especially 22, 32 and 40, and Plate III, Figure 15. 91.2–3 his own principality Monferrato in NW Italy. 91.3–4 the Latin kingdom of Palestine as a result of the First Crusade, a European (hence Latin) kingdom was founded in 1099 centred on Jerusalem, with control of the Jordan valley and about 300 km of the Mediterranean coast, but most of it fell to Saladin in 1187. Some military outposts clung on along the coast until 1291. 92.7–8 The sun of Allah . . . true believer compare the proverb ‘The sun shines upon all alike’ (ODEP, 787–88). See also Matthew 5.45: ‘for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust’. 92.12 torn asunder by wild horses mode of torture and execution whereby someone’s limbs would be tied to each of 4 horses which were driven in different directions. 92.15–16 the issue is written in the book of light see Weber, 2.604 (‘The History of Dakianos and of the Seven Sleepers’): ‘the predestination of God is from all eternity; what is writ in the Book of Life cannot be effaced’. There are several references in the Qu’ran to the ‘glorious book’ in which human deeds are recorded (e.g. 10.61, 11.6). The opening of the book is associated with the light of God at 39.69–70. There are also, separately, references to predestination in general and associated with the Day of Judgment in particular (e.g. 15.5, 78.17). El Hakim’s phrase seems to combine the two concepts, which are most closely related in the Qur’an at 18.48–49. 92.19–20 for the safety of his anointed in order to ensure that those set apart as Christians can be saved. 92.25–26 taking such a high matter upon your sole answer assuming sole responsibility for such an important matter. 92.34 the uncircumcised male circumcision is mandatory in the Islamic tradition; it was not normal practice in medieval Christian society. 92.43–93.1 the language of Ouie in the middle ages, two major forms of French existed, one (the langue d’oil) used N of the Loire, the other (the langue d’oc) to the S. The distinction is characterised by the word for ‘yes’ in the two dialects: Scott here simplifies the key word to the modern ouie (oui). 93.1 are you well advised probably do you realise? don’t you realise? 93.14 give ye God’den good-day to you. 93.16 dealt upon set to work upon; treated. 93.17 whispered whispered to. 93.24 our Lady of Lanercost although the form of words suggests the Virgin Mary, Lanercost Priory, founded in 1166 17 km NE of Carlisle, was in fact dedicated to St Mary Magdalene, whose statue appears at the top of the W front. 93.27 the lingua franca see note to 8.19–21. 93.39 So ho hunting exclamation indicating surprise. 93.39–40 leap in the dark proverbial: ODEP, 450. 93.43 lives he or dies he whether he lives or dies.

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94.2 climb Heaven without a ladder literary references to ascending a ladder to Heaven are commonplace, deriving ultimately from Jacob’s vision at Genesis 28.12. 94.24 Cyprus wine regarded as the best at the time of the Third Crusade. A poem called La Bataille des vins (The Battle of the Wines) written by Henri d’Andeli in 1224 tells the story of a wine tasting organised by the King of France, Philip Augustus (see Historical Note, 372–73), in which an English priest tasted wines from all over Europe and gave the prize to a sweet wine from Cyprus. 94.27 turn back from the plough see Luke 9.62. 94.36–39 motto 1 Henry IV, 1.3.188–90. 95.2 drawn out detached. 95.13 pitching the bar throwing a thick rod of iron or wood as an athletic exercise. See Joseph Strutt, The Sports and Pastimes of the People of England (London, 1801), 58–59. 95.17 Mastiffs see note to 65.18–19. 95.27–29 It is said . . . the pale of chivalry compare Mills, 2.61n: ‘Saladin could not but have felt some kindness for gallant warriors, whether Christians or Muselmans, if it be true, that as soon as he was old enough to bear arms, he had requested and received the honour of knighthood from a French cavalier, named Humphrey de Thoron.’ 95.30 Saint Bernard Bernard of Clairvaux (1090–1153), the most influential member of the Cistercian Order, and a participant in the major religious controversies of the 12th century. He was canonised in 1174. 95.31 belts and spurs the symbols of knighthood. 95.32 burgonets the OED defines burgonet as ‘a helmet with a visor, so fitted to the gorget or neck-piece, that the head could be turned without exposing the neck’. It first came into use in the 16th century. 95.33 Turk of tenpence worthless fellow: see Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta, 4.2.38–39: ‘what gentry can be in a poore Turke of ten pence?’ The phrase ‘of tenpence’ is contemptuous, indicating that he is not even worth a shilling (12 pence). 96.12 consist with be consistent with. 96.23–28 a parable . . . his own wishes see Gibbon, 6.60 (Ch. 58): ‘In some Oriental tale I have read the fable of a shepherd who was ruined by the accomplishment of his own wishes: he had prayed for water; the Ganges was turned into his grounds, and his flock and cottage were swept away by the inundation.’ 96.30 nineteen parts out of 20. 96.32–33 the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem see note to 91.3–4. 96.43 the bulwarks of Zion see Psalm 48.12–13: ‘Walk about Zion [Jerusalem], and go round about her: tell the towers thereof. Mark ye well her bulwarks, consider her palaces’. 97.6 Godfrey of Bouillon (c. 1060–1100), one of the leaders of the First Crusade. He was responsible for the capture of Jerusalem in 1099, and became the first ruler of the Kingdom of Jerusalem (although he was not known as king). Bouillon is in modern Belgium. For the character of Godfrey see Gibbon, 6.51–52 (Ch. 58). 97.6–7 crown of thorns the mock crown with which Jesus is recognised as King of the Jews on the day of his execution (Matthew 27.29; Mark 15.17; John 19.2). Gibbon writes: ‘the unanimous voice of the army proclaimed Godfrey of Bouillon the first and most worthy of the champions of Christendom. His magnanimity accepted a trust as full of danger as of glory; but in a city where his Saviour had been crowned with thorns, the devout pilgrim rejected the name and ensigns of royalty’ (Gibbon, 6.85: Ch. 58).

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97.15 the Assize of Jerusalem code of law established in 1099 by Godfrey of Bouillon (see note to 97.6) for the Kingdom of Jerusalem. 97.19–21 Guy de Lusignan’s claims . . . choice Guy de Lusignan (1129–94; King of Jerusalem 1186–90), married Sibylla, daughter of King Amalric I of Jerusalem, in 1180 and became king in 1186 on the death of her young son Baldwin V. On her death in 1190 the throne was disputed between Guy and Conrad of Monferrat, who married Sibylla’s half-sister Isabella. In 1191 Guy swore fealty to Richard the Lionheart, helping him to take Cyprus. When he arrived in Palestine, Richard reciprocated by supporting Guy against Conrad (and his relatives Philip of France and Leopold of Austria). A collective agreement was reached which permitted Guy to retain the throne during his lifetime, to be succeeded by Conrad and Isabella or their heirs. But in 1192 a council of the knights and barons of the kingdom elected Conrad, signalling the end of Guy’s reign. Richard entrusted Guy with the government of Cyprus as a compensation. Hume notes (2.14): ‘Lusignan, maintaining that the royal title was unalienable and indefeazable, had recourse to the protection of Richard, attended on him before he left Cyprus, and engaged him to embrace his cause. There needed no other reason for throwing Philip into the party of Conrade.’ 97.36 the Holy Temple Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem, on the site of which the Order of the Templars were based and from which they took their name. 97.41 the hill of Zion see e.g. Psalm 2.6: ‘Yet have I set my king upon my holy hill of Zion [Jerusalem]’. 97.42–43 that symbolical, emblematical, edifice . . . councils the Order itself. ‘Temple’ was a name for ‘Templars’. 97.43 Preceptories in Ivanhoe Scott says the ‘establishments of the Knights Templars were called Preceptories’ (ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 302.40). 98.2 eye of death i.e. an eye that would kill: 1 Henry IV, 1.3.143. 98.6–8 the coronet . . . something better as a noble the Marquis was entitled to wear a coronet, but he hopes to be confirmed as King of Jerusalem (see note to 97.19–21) and so wear a crown. 98.9 cap of maintenance hat worn as a symbol of high rank. In the order of precedence a marquis ranks below a duke, and a duke ranks below a king or queen. 98.15–16 the independence which we now hold the Templars were answerable only to the Pope, and were thus outside the normal hierarchies of the Church, and in practice independent of secular authorities as well. 98.16–17 Knights of Saint John see note to 60.12. 98.20–22 mount two upon one horse . . . custom ‘An early Templar seal shows two knights riding on the same horse, as an emblem of the poverty and brotherhood which they professed, but the shared horse cannot represent literal truth, as from the beginning each knight needed two or three horses to fulfil his duties’: Peter Partner, The Murdered Magicians: The Templars and their Myth (Oxford, 1982), 3. 99.12–13 plans of ambition nearer to Paris than Palestine Philip had two main territorial ambitions: to control that part of Flanders which was not subject to French rule; and to conquer the Plantagenet territories in France. He left the Holy Land on 31 July 1191, perhaps using persistent ill health as an excuse, to pursue these aims. 99.19 God help the while may God help these times; alas. 100.2–3 this unshorn Sampson of the Isle i.e. Richard (from the island of Britain), who is as powerful as was Samson before Delilah cut off his hair (Judges 16.4–19).

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102.1–3 like the patriarch . . . ram caught in the thicket for Abraham’s preparing to sacrifice his son Isaac see Genesis 22.1–13. 102.5 Moloch idol to whom the Ammonites sacrificed their children: see e.g. 2 Kings 23.10. 102.11 St George’s Mount see note to 111.27. 102.27–33 motto not by Sir David Lindsay (c. 1486–1555); probably by Scott. 102.34–35 Leopold . . . rank belonged see Historical Note, 372. The ‘Grand’ is unhistorical: Leopold was simply ‘Duke’. 102.36 the German empire the Holy Roman Empire. From 800 to 1806 it functioned as a powerful association of states based on, but by no means limited to, the German-speaking territories. At the time of the novel’s action the Emperor was elected by the German princes. 102.36–37 his near relationship . . . Henry the Stern Henry VI Hohenstaufen (1165–97) was Holy Roman Emperor from 1190. Leopold, who had no family relationship with him, inherited the Dukedom of Austria from his father Henry II (c. 1112–77), created Duke in 1156 by Henry VI’s father, Frederick Barbarossa. 102.41–103.2 the shame . . . in disguise in December 1192 Leopold captured Richard in Austria, in defiance of the Church’s claim to protect returning Crusaders. Richard was transferred to the custody of Emperor Henry VI in February 1193 and not released for another year. 103.41 a vassal of France at the time of the novel’s action the Plantagenets controlled Normandy, Maine, Anjou, Touraine and Aquitaine, but did so technically under French sovereignty. 104.8 choice Cyprus wine see note to 94.24. 104.17 their ancestors, who subdued the Roman empire the Germanic Visigoths under Alaric sacked Rome in 410. 104.27–29 long beards . . . Western Europe for the Western aversion to beards at this period see note to 13.16–18. Long tunics became fashionable at the same time, apparently under Arabian influence: see François Boucher, A History of Costume in the West (London, 1967), 171 and James Robinson Planché, A Cyclopædia of Costume, 2 vols (London, 1879), 2.55. 105.1 Tokay the Alsace name for pinot gris. The sweet white wine from Hungary called tokay was not produced until the 17th century. 105.4–5 velvet shoes . . . two feet see Strutt (1.105–06) for the popularity (certainly among Normans) for ‘lengthening the toes of the shoes, and bringing them forward to a sharp point. . . . So far as one can judge from the illuminations of the twelfth century, the fashion of wearing long-pointed shoes did not long maintain its ground. It was, however, afterwards revived, and even carried to a more preposterous extent.’ 105.13–16 decorated with various silver and gold coins . . . rings this variant of the usual jester’s bells has not been found elsewhere. 105.25 Jonas Schwanker probably imaginary. In German Schwank means ‘merry or comical tale’ or ‘theatrical farce’, and the intransitive verb schwanken can mean ‘shake’ or ‘tumble’. 105.26 his fool’s cap, bells, and bauble for a full description of the cap and attached bells see Ivanhoe (1820), ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 19.20–28. A bauble was a court jester’s mock symbol of office consisting of a baton with a carved head with asses’ ears at one end. 105.36–37 clanged their flappers i.e. they banged what were probably wooden boards together so as to attract attention. 106.9 brought on the carpet subjected to criticism. 106.10–11 Dickon of the Broom ‘Dickon’ is a familiar form of ‘Richard’. Broom, a shrub of moors and waste places, was adopted as a symbol

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(of humility) by Geoffrey of Anjou, Richard’s grandfather, while on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The house of Plantagenet (Latin planta genista, broomplant) ruled the kingdom of England from Henry II, Richard’s father, until Richard II’s deposition in 1399, though the name of the dynasty was apparently not in use before the 15th century. 106.18 they who humbled themselves had been exalted see Matthew 23.12: ‘And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted’. 106.19 Honour unto whom honour is due a very common tag in early modern texts: see Romans 13.7. 106.23 the Joyeuse Science see note to 26.30. 106.27 master of the revels official in a great court who had responsibility for arranging entertainments. 106.28 high German the language spoken in the central parts of Germany, as opposed to that spoken on the lower ground nearer to the North and Baltic Seas (such as Dutch). It came to be accepted as the standard form of German. 106.30–33 What brave chief . . . fairest feather this and the following stanza are probably by Scott. 106.36 full crowned brimming. 106.37 Hoch lebe der Herzog Leopold German three cheers for Duke Leopold! 106.43–44 The eagle . . . the Arch-Duke the eagle was the heraldic device of the Babenberg dynasty which ruled Austria from 976 to 1248. 107.9 the lion of Saint Mark traditionally the four evangelists are represented by a man (Matthew), a (winged) lion (Mark), an ox (Luke), and an eagle (John). Mark is the patron saint of Venice, and consequently a winged lion appears on its banner. 107.14 the three lions passant of England see note to 58.37–38. 107.15 formerly . . . leopards in medieval heraldry a lion not rampant was known as a lion leopard. See also note to 58.37–38. 107.16 at all points in all details; in every respect. 107.17 woe worth a curse on. 107.22–23 yonder hangs his banner for the ultimate source of the episode that follows see Historical Note, 366–67. 107.43 the Holy Roman empire see note to 102.36. 108.1–2 this grandson of a Norman bastard ‘grandson’ is used loosely. Richard was the great-great-grandson of William I (the Conqueror), an illegitimate son of Robert Duke of Normandy. 108.3 right myself vindicate or justify myself. 108.7 king or kaisar the alliterative pairing is common in medieval literature, kaisar meaning ‘emperor’ or ‘ruler’. 108.35 mischief afoot see Julius Caesar, 3.2.261: ‘Mischief, thou art afoot’. 109.2 Emperors, his progenitors Leopold’s mother Theodora was a niece of the Byzantine Emperor Manuel I (reigned 1143–80). His father’s mother was Agnes von Waiblingen, daughter of Henry IV, Emperor 1084–1105. 109.3 Count of Anjou see note to 86.19. 109.22 byzants or bezants, gold coins from Byzantium, in use throughout Europe between the 9th and 14th centuries. The term is also applied to gold coins issued by the Crusading states such as the Kingdom of Jerusalem and Tripoli at the time of the novel’s action: these were copied from Islamic dinars, the region’s main coinage. 111.3 Lord Salisbury the Earl of Salisbury from 1168 to 1196 was

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William Fitzpatrick, but it is later indicated (218.32–33) that Scott is thinking of William ‘Longsword’ (b. in or before 1167, d. 1226), the natural son of Henry II, who became 3rd Earl of Salisbury in 1196 on his marriage to the Countess of Salisbury. A late tradition asserted that his mother was Rosamund Clifford, Henry II’s mistress kept at his palace in Woodstock, but she is now known to have been Ida de Tosny. 111.24 Bows and bills an English cry of alarm in extreme circumstances. 111.27 Saint George for merry England George was not adopted as patron saint of England until the reign of Edward III (1327–77), but there is a persistent tradition that the English army at the Third Crusade was placed under his protection by Richard following a vision of the saint during the siege of Acre. For an exposure of this tradition see Marc Morris, ‘Slaying Myths: St George and the Dragon’, History Today, 59:4 (April 2009), 40–41. The first example of ‘Merry England’ in the OED is dated to the 14th century. 111.42 in the last disorder in the utmost disorder. 112.3–4 Normandy, Poitou, Gascony, and Anjou see note to 103.41. At the time of the novel’s action Poitou and Gascony formed part of the Plantagenet territory of Aquitaine. 112.6 get on foot stir themselves. 113.16 Wallenrode Scott may have taken the name from Konrad von Wallenrode, 24th Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights from 1391 to 1393. The Order originated during the Third Crusade. 113.28 unmatched in wrestling . . . exercises Richard was a notable warrior, but he was apparently not particularly interested in military exercises: see Gillingham, 256. 113.37 the island mastiff see note to 65.18–19. 114.25 Ulysses . . . Achilles in Classical legend and the works of Homer, Ulysses is cool, tactful and cunning whereas Achilles is hot-tempered. Scott is probably recalling Henry (5.227), ‘One of these writers [Vinsauf], who attended him [Richard] in his expedition into the Holy Land, compares him to Ulysses for policy; to Nestor for eloquence; to Hector, Achilles, Alexander, and Rolland, for military talents’. For Vinsauf see note to 66.22–23. 114.34 Coeur de Lion for the origin of this appellation see the summary of the Anglo-Norman romance Richard Cœur de Lion in Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances, ed. George Ellis, 3 vols (London, 1805), 2.200–01. Richard is supposed to have torn a lion’s heart from its body through its mouth with his bare hands. Its owner, the King of Almain, responds: ‘He may be called, by right skill,/ King y-christened of most renown,/ Strong Richard Cœur de Lion!’ 114.34–35 the crusade, itself an undertaking wholly irrational compare Gibbon, 6.102 (Ch. 59): ‘the obstinate perseverance of Europe may indeed excite our pity and admiration [amazement]; that no instruction should have been drawn from constant and adverse experience; that the same confidence should have repeatedly grown from the same failures; that six succeeding generations should have rushed headlong down the precipice that was open before them; and that men of every condition should have staked their public and private fortunes on the desperate adventure of possession or recovering a tombstone two thousand miles from their country.’ See also Hume, 1.292 (‘the most signal and most durable monument of human folly that has yet appeared in any age or nation’), and Mills, 2.341 (‘War became a sacred duty, and obligatory on every class of mankind. The fair face of religion was besmeared with blood, and heavenly attraction was changed for demoniacal repulsiveness. The Crusades encouraged the most horrible violences of fanaticism’). 115.10 A truce with that’s enough of.

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115.32–33 the Oriflamme the red sacred banner of the Abbey of St Denis near Paris, entrusted by the abbots to the early kings of France from 1124. It was said to have been Charlemagne’s, and is mentioned in the Chanson de Roland . The ‘flame of gold’ was crimson with three deep-cut incisions in its fly (free edge) representing tongues. Various miracles were attributed to its appearance on the battlefield, such as the fog clearing over the French forces but not over their opponents, as reported by Froissart. 116.43 the lions of England and the lilies of France for the English lions see note to 58.37–38. The fleur-de-lis was the French royal device by the time of the novel’s action and appears in profusion on contemporaneous coats of arms (reduced to 3 in 1376). 117.24–25 Watch it . . . dubbed Scott explains in his ‘Essay on Chivalry’ that candidates for knighthood ‘watched their arms all night in a church or chapel, and prepared for the honour to be conferred on them, by vigil, fast, and prayer’: Prose Works, 6.71. 118.11–12 motto John Gay, The Beggar’s Opera, Act 1, Scene 2. 119.3 die as a fool dieth see 2 Samuel 3.33. 119.26 to disturb his thoughts see e.g. Marcos Martinez, The sixth Booke of the Myrrour of Knighthood, trans. R. P. (London, 1598), F3v; and Charles Sorel, The Extravagant Shepherd. The Anti-Romance . . . (London, 1653), 160. 119.30 in the slips Henry V, 3.1.31. 119.33 Merlin an enchanter in the stories of King Arthur. 119.33 Maugis a character proficient in magic found in e.g. the 12thcentury French epic poem Les Quatre Fils d’Aymon (The Four Sons of Aymon). Scott owned an edition published in 1581: CLA, 119. 119.35 come not at will not approach. 119.39 for death and life i.e. ready for mortal combat. 119.40 Sathanas Satan. This form of the name is used in the Wyclif version of the Bible and in The Canterbury Tales (e.g. in ‘The Miller’s Tale’, 1 (A), 3750). 119.42 a spring or check this must be a reference to the catch which holds the drawn string in place before the bolt is released. During the Third Crusade this would have been in the form of a claw: see W. F. Paterson, A Guide to the Crossbow ([London], 1990), 34. 121.3 call down the genii from their sphere see Weber, 3.178n (‘The History of the Adopted Son’) for the Islamic version of the Platonic heavenly spheres: ‘The Mahometan cabalists pretend, that each of the planets is guided by an angel; and that these angels have another angel for their chief, who is called Coryaial’. 121.8 Go to come on. 121.14–15 laying charge on entrusting with a responsibility. 121.33–34 Arthur of Tintagel King Arthur (see note to 52.15), who is supposed to have been born at Tintagel Castle on the N coast of Cornwall. 122.4 bethink thyself consider. 122.9 be merry with jest with. 122.20 soul of suspicion suspicion itself. 122.28 a shadowy name Thomas James Mathias, The Pursuits of Literature, 7th edn (London, 1798), 205 (Dialogue 3, line 144). 125.2–10 motto unidentified; probably by Scott. 125.36 Prester John legendary Christian king in Asia or (from the 14th century) Ethiopia. 126.10–11 at all hazards in spite of every danger. 126.14 ocular proof Othello, 3.3.364. 126.15 credit me believe me.

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126.16 Calista the name is common in literature from the 17th century to Scott’s time. 126.22 has us at fault catches us out in an error. 127.26 under your favour begging your pardon; with all due respect. 127.41 Florice the name probably comes from the romance Florice and Blauncheflour (Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances, ed. George Ellis, 3 vols (London, 1805), 3.101–41: CLA, 105). In the romance Florice is male, but ‘Florice’ sounds both French and female. 128.3 weeping and gnashing of teeth Matthew 8.12 etc. 128.9 the House of Navarre see Historical Note, 363. 128.34–35 your Grace formerly a courtesy-title for a king or queen: see e.g. Hamlet, 3.4.3. 133.6–11 motto see John Dryden, Don Sebastian, 4.3.511–15: included in The Works of John Dryden, ed. Walter Scott, 18 vols (London, 1808), 7.414. 134.6–9 Adversity is like the period . . . pomegranate the sentiment may be Scott’s invention. For ‘the former and . . . latter rains’ (the rains of autumn and spring) see Jeremiah 5.24, Hosea 6.3 and Joel 2.23. For the flowers and fruits compare the Qur’an 6.99: ‘From the date palm come clusters of low-hanging dates, and there are gardens of vines, olives, and pomegranates . . . these are signs for those who would believe’. 134.14 the Koran and its commentators it is likely that Scott was supplying an idea from his own impression of the Qur’an rather than referring precisely to it. 134.17 that which is written the holy book of Islam is strictly called Qur’an only when it is recited. In its printed form it is mus-haf (‘that which is written’). Muslims are encouraged to commit the Qur’an to memory. 134.22–23 the ox for the field, and the camel for the desert probably Scott’s invention. 134.27 an unclean animal Islam has often regarded dogs as unclean animals, though it is not a teaching of the Qur’an. Weber (1.37) refers to dogs ‘that by the Mussulman religion are reckoned unclean animals’ (‘The Story of the three Calenders, Sons of Kings; and of the five Ladies of Bagdad’). 135.12 to hear was to obey in spite of the assumption that this must be from The Arabian Nights it is an 18th-century phrase used by Charles Churchill (1731–64), The Ghost, Bk 4 (London, 1763), 193, and popularised by Byron: see The Bride of Abydos (1813), 1.44. The ultimate source is probably the Qur’an: see 24.51. 135.21–22 all creatures . . . the service of man see Genesis 1.26–28 and 9.2–3. As part of the Torah, Genesis is accepted by Muslims as divinely inspired. See also the Qur’an 45.12. 135.41 forms of clay see Genesis 2.7 (‘And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground’), Job 33.6 (‘I also am formed out of the clay’), etc., and the Qur’an 33.7 (‘He first created man from clay’), etc. 135.43 Sultan Adam this term for Adam has not been found elsewhere. In the Qur’an (2.30) Adam is described as a caliph, or deputy of God. 136.3 Knowledge is the parent of power compare the proverb ‘Knowledge is power’ (ODEP, 436–37). 136.6–7 Thine own Christian writings . . . flee to another see Matthew 10.23. 136.8–10 driven forth . . . Medina see note to 80.36. 136.19 take the turban convert to Islam. 136.21–23 Saladin makes no converts . . . conviction Saladin had this reputation, but it was not invariably the case: after the battle of Hattin the Hospitallers and Templars were given a choice between death and conver-

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sion. Most, though not all, chose the former. 136.26 one whose second life is doomed to misery only believers could enter paradise. 137.6–7 even to lend their arms . . . the Prophet this may be a reference to attempts to make individual peace with Saladin by either or both of Raymond III, Count of Tripoli (c. 1140–87: succeeded his father as Count in 1152) and Conrad of Monferrat. Raymond, who had been disappointed in his hopes of assuming the throne of the Kingdom of Jerusalem by Guy de Lusignan, concluded a separate truce with Saladin in 1186, though he rejoined Guy for the battle of Hattin the following year. But it was the Muslim side which lent troops (to Raymond, to strengthen his garrison at Tiberias): see Christopher Tyerman, God’s War: A New History of the Crusades (London, 2006). Tyerman concludes (366) that ‘Raymond’s behaviour . . . was more than selfish. It was treason.’ Similarly, in the winter of 1191–92 Conrad opened direct negotiations with Saladin in hopes of consolidating his position in northern Palestine. 137.8 The King of Kings see note to 18.20. 137.9 the Lion King Richard the Lion-Heart: see Historical Note, 373–74. 137.9 hold treaty with enter into negotiations with. 137.13 free pilgrimage to Jerusalem by the Treaty of Ramla, signed by Saladin and Richard in June 1192, Jerusalem remained under Muslim control but was open to Christian pilgrims. 137.40–41 the widowed Queen of Naples . . . Saladin’s brother Richard’s sister Joanna (1165–99) married William II, King of Sicily, in 1177. She was widowed in November 1189, and in October 1191 Richard suggested (perhaps not altogether seriously) that, in order to make peace with Saladin, she should marry the Sultan’s brother Saphadin, or Malik alAdil (Sultan 1207–18). Nothing came of this, and in 1196 she married Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse. 137.42–43 This may appear . . . p. 60 Mills notes that Richard ‘proposed a consolidation of the Christian and Mohammedan interests, the establishment of a government at Jerusalem, partly European and partly Asiatic; and these schemes of policy were to be carried into effect by the marriage of Saphadin [Saladin’s brother] with the widow of William king of Sicily’. 138.2–3 the Mahommedan princes . . . in Spain the Qur’an teaches (5.5) that Muslim men are allowed to marry Christian or Jewish women, and this practice was common during the Muslim occupation of the Iberian peninsula. 138.16–17 Henry of Champagne Henri (1166–97), Count of Champagne 1181–97, was King of Jerusalem from 1192 (following the assassination of Conrad of Monferrat) to 1197. 138.19–20 the wise arch-priest of Tyre Archbishop Joscius. See note to 77.40. 139.6–7 struck down the gate of Acre Acre was captured by the Crusaders in July 1191 (see note to 54.27), but it was starved into submission rather than stormed. 139.10–12 the writings of thy law . . . life the Qur’an (2.195) explicitly forbids suicide. In Christian teaching suicide has generally been held to be a gravely sinful act, but there is no specific condemnation of it in the Bible. For tabernacle meaning ‘body’ see 2 Corinthians 5.1 and 2 Peter 1.13–14. 139.14 forbidden to avoid the punishment compare Leviticus 26.40–42. 139.21 Go to come, come! 140.13–25 motto see Thomas Chatterton (1752–70), ‘Bristowe Tragedie’, lines 1–12: The Works of Thomas Chatterton, [ed. Robert Southey], 3

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vols (London, 1803), 2.87–88 (CLA, 198). 140.42 the Earl of Salisbury see note to 111.3. 142.4 Sir Henry Neville probably fictitious. See note to 198.36. 142.21 leaving to view exposing. 142.22 his Saxon predecessor’s epithet of Ironside Edmund II, son of Aethelred, was elected King of Wessex after the death of his father in 1016 at the time of the Danish invasion of England led by Cnut. After an eight-month campaign of varying success, the English were finally defeated. Edmund died 30 November 1016 during the ensuing negotiations, and Cnut was accepted as king by both sides. ‘Although not recorded by the AngloSaxon Chronicle until 1057, his sobriquet, Ironside, may well be contemporary’ (Oxford Dictionary of National Biography ). 142.40 ever fair and false see note to 74.20. 143.2 circumstances prevented his bringing his forces there is no evidence that William the Lion ever contemplated joining the Crusade. 143.6 as as if. 144.8 pitched field battle involving a large number of combatants. 144.19–20 in Iago’s words . . . devil who bade him see Othello, 1.1.109–10. 145.15 in his despite in spite of himself. 145.25 presently to die see Othello, 5.2.55. 145.26 ghostly father i.e. a priest, one who ministers to the spirit. 145.26 we would not kill soul and body see Othello, 5.2.33. 146.6 Carmelite see note to 44.39–40. 146.28 the Irthing a river that flows from the moors N of Hadrian’s Wall past Gilsland and Lanercost before joining the River Eden E of Carlisle. 147.14–18 motto unidentified; probably by Scott. 147.19–20 Sanchez, King of Navarre Sancho VI, who reigned from 1150 till his death in 1194. 147.25–26 in reality she was not above one and twenty the precise date of Berengaria’s birth is not known. She may have been a few years older than this. 147.37–38 toil their spirits labour energetically. 148.32–33 Eleanor, the celebrated Queen Mother of England Eleanor (c. 1122–1204), Henry II’s queen, whom he married in 1152, was a powerful woman in her own right, being heiress to the dukedom of Aquitaine. She bore Henry 7 children, among them Richard and John who both became kings of England, and she was to play a very active political role in England during Richard’s reign. 149.14–15 the dethroned Queen of Jerusalem it is not clear who is meant. For the dynastic situation see Historical Note, 363, and note to 97.19–21. Sibylla lost Jerusalem of which she was queen in her own right, but she died in 1190. The throne was then claimed by Conrad, who had married Isabella, Sibylla’s sister, but Sibylla’s husband Guy de Lusignan opposed their accession, and it was agreed that Guy would retain the throne during his lifetime, but would be succeeded by Conrad and Isabella or their heirs. It is possible that Isabella is the temporarily ‘dethroned Queen of Jerusalem’. 150.21 Saint Thomas of Orthez Orthez is a town in the Pyrénées-Atlantiques department of France, which was within Navarre in 1191. No record has been found of a shrine to St Thomas there. 151.8 the King of Cyprus’s ransom Richard I captured Isaac Ducas Comnenus (c. 1160–96), King of Cyprus from 1184, when he occupied the island in May 1191 on his way to the Holy Land. The ransom for Isaac had to be forfeited by Richard as part of his own ransoming from captivity in 1193. 151.32–39 motto unidentified; probably by Scott.

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152.9 thou dealst on him you deal with him. 152.11 mark me observe for me. 152.40 nether stocks stockings. 154.20 Hercules reconciling himself . . . Dejanira Hercules, a Greek hero of superhuman strength, married Deianira, winning her by defeating the river-god Achelous in wrestling. 155.9 Go to come, come! 156.1 its crystal floor compare Revelation 4.6: ‘And before the throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal’. 156.34–35 the spotless virgin fears not the raging lion probably the earliest example of this common Christian motif is the story of St Prisca, a young Roman Christian of noble family: when she was exposed to a fierce lion in the amphitheatre it is said to have lain down at her feet. For a variant well-known to Scott see Una and the lion in Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, Book 1 (1590), Canto 3. 156.40 the spouse of the dead see e.g. Sophocles (496–406  ), Antigone, line 816 (‘I shall wed Acheron’). 156.43 the long mantle and hood of striped cloth until their dress was reformed in the 13th century, Carmelites (see note to 44.39–40) wore a mantle with black and white or brown and white stripes. 157.15–16 the blessed Elias, our founder the Carmelites considered Elijah (see 1 Kings Chs 17–19 and 2 Kings Chs 1–2) as one of the founders of monastic life, anchorites having survived from his time on Mount Carmel until the Order was founded. For his being taken up into Heaven see 2 Kings 2.11. 157.23 blind Bayard alluding to the proverb ‘As bold as blind Bayard’: Ray, 80; ODEP, 72. 157.23 a leap in the dark proverbial: ODEP, 450. 157.34–35 our Christian Zion Jerusalem. See also note to 24.7–8. 157.38–39 those spirits which walk in dry places see Luke 11.24: ‘When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest’. 157.43–158.1 I will not put my neck . . . girdle compare the proverbial ‘Thy thumb is under my belt’ or ‘My thumb is not under your belt’ (Ray, 307; ODEP, 820), here linked with the idea of hanging or strangling. 158.37 fits of the mother fits of the uterus; hysterical fits. The expression is very common in 17th-century literature. 159.9–14 motto see Thomas Tomkis, Albvmazar (London, 1634), 1.7.46–50. 159.21 shake the dust from my feet proverbial: ODEP, 719 (from Matthew 10.14). 159.25 purple and fine linen Luke 16.19; see also Exodus 28.5: ‘And they shall take gold, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen’. The exact phrase occurs quite frequently in literature, especially of the 17th century. Purple is a colour associated with kings and emperors. 159.30 khirkhah Arabic, khirqa. The translation in the footnote is correct. 159.39 let your servant speak one word, and yet live compare N[ahum] Tate, The History of King Richard the Second (London, 1681), 47 (5.2): ‘O! can I speak and live?’ 160.7 the Sultan Adam see note to 135.43. 160.8 Aboulbeschar Arabic father of the human race. 160.18–22 Blondel’s tale . . . appeared Blondel was a historical minstrel (see note to 237.12). He also became a legend: the 13th-century Récits d’un ménestrel de Reims tells, among other things, the story of Richard’s being

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captured by the Duke of Austria on his way home from the Crusade in 1192, and his discovery by Blondel. The story here summarised by Richard has not been identified. It is quoted by Mitchell who gives no source, but a quest in which a knight is tested before or in an enchanted castle is common in medieval literature: Jerome Mitchell, Scott, Chaucer, and Medieval Romance (Lexington, Kentucky, 1987), 181. 160.29–32 the eastern people . . . women and children ‘Immoderate laughing is generally condemned by Muhammadan teachers, for ‘Ayishah related that Muhammad “never laughed a full laugh so that the inside of his mouth could be seen; he only smiled”’: Thomas Patrick Hughes, A Dictionary of Islam (London, 1885), 285. 160.40 All our lives are forfeited see Measure for Measure, 2.2.73. 161.21 abuse not the steed . . . battle the sentiment is probably Scott’s invention. 161.42–43 inefficient . . . an unclean animal in Islamic tradition dogs are generally regarded as unclean (see note to 134.27), and contact with them must be followed by ritual purification. 162.16 Bethink you consider; remember. 163.15 to hear is to obey see note to 135.12. 163.20–22 the fountain . . . Moussa Ben Amran see Numbers 20.11. The Arabic name means ‘Moses son of Amran’ (see 1 Chronicles 6.3). 163.30 Thou hast hand and glove upon it you have my absolute assurance. Compare the form of the oath in Ben Jonson, Bartholomew Fair (first performed 1614), Act 3, Scene 5: ‘By this good hand, glove and all’. 163.34 May your days be multiplied see Deuteronomy 11.21. 164.9 the German boar breakfasts ere he hears mass Richard implies that Leopold is unrefined and impious in his behaviour. Normally mass should precede breakfast. 164.17–18 his own Banner of Austria reversed the banner is to be flown upside-down as a sign of shame. 164.30–33 Bethink you of . . . Bethink you how Think of . . . Think how. 165.9 some seer of Scripture e.g. Elijah: see especially 1 Kings 19.9 and 2 Kings 1.8. 165.37–38 after death the judgment see 2 Esdras 13.45 in the Apocrypha. 166.16–17 beseems not is not fitting. 166.22–24 the starry host . . . their voice see Psalm 19.2–3: ‘Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.’ There are also echoes of the Platonic concept of the music of the spheres (see The Merchant of Venice, 5.1.60–65), and of Joseph Addison’s hymn ‘The spacious firmament on high’ in The Spectator, 465 (23 August 1712). 166.25 thy House of Life in astrology the heavens are divided into 12 houses, each with power over one aspect of humanity’s affairs. The house of life is the first of these, with power over the basic self and the individual’s physical body. 166.26 an emanation of Saturn an influence proceeding from the planet Saturn, which sometimes acted as the ‘grim reaper’. 167.18 trial by combat this method of determining guilt or innocence was widely resorted to in 12th-century Europe. 167.19 His oath prohibits it i.e. it would be inappropriate for a Crusader to fight a colleague rather than concentrating on killing Muslims. Compare 32.24–25. 167.28–30 he grasps the red-hot globe of iron . . . consecrated bread

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one form of ordeal was to grasp a red-hot piece of iron: remaining unscathed indicated innocence. Similarly the accused was considered guilty if he could not swallow a piece of consecrated bread. 167.42–168.1 The destroying angel . . . Jebusite see 2 Samuel 24.16. 168.22 thy blue veins see the OED definition of blue blood: ‘that which flows in the veins of old and aristocratic families, a transl. of the Spanish sangre azul attributed to some of the oldest and proudest families of Castile, who claimed never to have been contaminated by Moorish, Jewish, or other foreign admixture; the expression probably originated in the blueness of the veins of people of fair complexion compared with those of dark skin’. 168.24–25 the royal Lusignan . . . Godfrey for Guy de Lusignan, King of Jerusalem, see note to 97.19–21. Guy married into the family line which inherited the Kingdom of Jerusalem from Godefroi de Bouillon (c. 1060–1100). After the Crusaders’ capture of Jerusalem in 1099 Godefroi refused to be called King, since no one should wear a crown where Christ had worn his crown of thorns. He took instead the title of Defender of the Holy Sepulchre. 168.25–26 Alberick Mortemar imaginary, but Mortemar is the name of a French aristocratic family, suggesting ‘Dead Sea’. 168.31–32 a fallen star . . . some foul jelly nostoc, a gelatinous mass of vegetable material found in damp meadows in summer, was believed to be a fragment of a fallen star. See e.g. John Suckling, ‘Farewel to Love’ (1646), lines 11–16: ‘As he whose quicker eye doth trace/ A false star shot to a mark’t place,/ Do’s run apace,/ And thinking it to catch,/ A gelly up do’s snatch.’ 168.36–37 gnawing at my vitals . . . heathenesse referring to the legend of the Spartan boy who hid a fox which he had stolen under his clothing and rather than confess to the theft, had to put up with being gnawed. 169.9–10 a maiden of low degree see note to 49.6–7. 169.16–17 spiritual pride . . . infernal regions Satan is said to have fallen from Heaven because he was too proud to serve God. 169.29–30 the doom . . . thy offence ‘The crime of solicitation [seduction in the confessional] was subject to episcopal jurisdiction and, throughout the middle ages, there was no general legislation prescribing its penalties’: Henry Charles Lea, A History of the Inquisition of Spain, 4 vols (New York, 1906–07), 4.97. But there was never any question of capital punishment. 169.31 in the gall of worldly bitterness see Acts 8.23: ‘For I perceive that thou art in the gall of bitterness, and in the bond of iniquity’. 169.36 Tophet or Topheth: a valley outside Jerusalem where sacrifices were offered and dead bodies buried or burned. See Isaiah 30.33: ‘For Tophet is ordained of old; yea, for the king it is prepared; he hath made it deep and large: the pile thereof is fire and much wood; the breath of the Lord, like a stream of brimstone, doth kindle it’. 170.3–4 the sinful Adam your unregenerate nature. 170.12–15 I will part . . . the Temple see Henry, 5.228: ‘When the archbishop of Rouen told him [Richard], in his last illness [in 1199], that it was now high time to part with his three favourite daughters, his pride, avarice, and luxury; I am resolved, replied he, to dispose of them in marriage without delay; the first to the templars, the second to the monks, and the third to the prelates, because I know they love them dearly, and will treat them kindly’. The anecdote is also recorded by Hume and Gibbon in different words: see Hume, 2.6 (who gives 1189 as the date), and Gibbon, 6.145 (Ch. 60). 170.20 Kyrie Eleison see note to 34.24. 170.24–25 the poor must be called . . . banquet see Luke 14.12–14. 170.32 put some scorn upon him treat him with mockery or derision.

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170.37–40 the Saracens . . . seeming folly of the madman see note to 34.13–14. For ‘wisdom of the sage is but as folly’ see Isaiah 44.25, Romans 1.22, 1 Corinthians 1.20. 171.1 the blessed Tishbite . . . order see note to 157.15. Elijah is ‘the Tishbite’ (inhabitant of Tisbeh) at 1 Kings 17.1. 171.6 the blessed Baptist John the Baptist lived in the desert on locusts and wild honey, wearing a coat of camelskin, before returning to Judaea to baptise Christ (Matthew Ch. 3). 171.9 Peter the Hermit (d. 1115), an early advocate of the First Crusade, whose preaching recruited many enthusiastic supporters for what turned out to be a disastrous expedition to the East in 1095. The better-organised expeditions of 1096–99 succeeded in capturing Jerusalem. 171.17 par amours French by way of sexual love. 171.18 belle amie French lady-love. 171.26–34 motto unidentified; probably by Scott. 172.8 intention to return to Europe Philip left Palestine on 3 August: see Historical Note, 364. 172.9 the Earl of Champagne see note to 138.16–17. A great vassal is a vassal of the Crown. 172.17–18 military orders of the Temple, and of St John see notes to 60.12 and 60.12–13. 172.32 Confiteor Latin I confess. 172.34 culpa mea Latin it is my fault. 172.38–39 the Conqueror William the Conqueror. 174.3–5 he spoke with great vehemence . . . the true one Gillingham notes (188), referring to the origin of the fictitious interfaith marriage proposal of the novel: ‘There is nothing implausible about Richard suggesting— half-seriously, half jokingly—that al-Adil convert to Christianity in order to marry Joan. Such ideas about Muslims converting were already in circulation in the West. According to one such report Saladin himself offered to convert when proposing a marriage between a son of his and a daughter of Frederick Barbarossa in 1173.’ The suggestion of Saladin inclining clearly to Christianity is found frequently in Western sources from the 12th century: see Margaret Jubb, The Legend of Saladin in Western Literature and Historiography (Lampeter, 2000), 97–103. 174.15 snatched as a brand from the burning see Amos 4.11. 174.15–16 Magna est veritas, et prævalebit Latin Great is truth, and it will prevail. See 1 Esdras 4.41 (Vulgate Apocrypha), where the verb is in the present tense. The sentence appears several times in 17th-century texts in the form with the future tense. 174.18 calling of the Saracens a ‘meeting’ called by the muezzin (public crier, who summons Muslims to prayer). 174.19 matter of induction business to which it will be introduced or persuaded of. 174.22 Elijah . . . order see note to 157.15–16. 174.23–24 Elisha . . . mantle over him see 1 Kings 19.19. When Elijah ‘cast his mantle’ on Elisha he was both recruiting him and passing on his spiritual gifts. 174.32 priest of Baal in 1 Kings 18.17–40 God answers Elijah’s prayer, enabling him to triumph over the priests of the false god Baal. 174.38 possess my patience see Luke 21.19: ‘In your patience possess ye your souls’. 175.1 the lowly broom-plant . . . surname see note to 106.10–11. 175.9–10 another . . . pourtrayed a female kneeling in The Monastery (1820), ed. Penny Fielding,     9, 38.43–39.2, Scott introduces ‘a banner

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representing a female, supposed to personify the Scottish Church, kneeling in the attitude of prayer, with the legend, Afflictæ Sponsæ ne obliviscaris’, which Scott glosses as ‘Forget not the afflicted Spouse’ (39.43). He draws the account from William Patten, The Expedicion into Scotlande of the most woorthely fortunate prince Edward, Duke of Soomerset (London, 1548), k.viii. Patten’s Expedicion was reprinted in William Dalyell, Fragments of Scotish History (Edinburgh, 1798), where the episode occurs at p. 73: CLA, 4. 175.33 the bright star of battle and victory not identified. 176.9 rough language of his trade see Frederick Reynolds (1764–1841), A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Written by Shakespeare with alterations, additions, and new songs (London, 1816), 56: ‘the plain/ Rough language of a soldier’. 176.42 The Patriarch of Jerusalem the head of the Church in Palestine, but the office was vacant 1191–94 (Heraclius, who had assumed the office in 1180 died in the winter of 1190–91). 177.43–178.1 the lion which goeth about . . . devour the Devil. See 1 Peter 5.8: ‘your adversary, the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour’. 178.14 pater noster the Lord’s Prayer, of which these are the opening words in Latin. 178.23–24 for my sake because of me; because of my offences. 178.24 withdraw their hand from the plough see Luke 9.62. 178.31–33 I may have called the conquered . . . dominion there is no known instance of Richard literally renaming a city, but other monarchs have done so. 178.39 it shames me I am ashamed. 178.43 a stumbling-block of offence see Romans 9.33 and 1 Peter 2.8. 179.14 Zion Jerusalem. 179.26 Peter the Hermit see note to 171.9. 180.36 Charegites the Kharijites, a fundamentalist sect that sprang from the divisions in Islam following the battle of Siffin in 657. They objected to Mohammed’s son-in-law Ali’s acceptance of arbitration between the warring factions because they stood for the word of God rather than its interpretation by men. They were known for their fanaticism, and did indeed murder Ali, but their role was much more as a purifying intellectual force. They were far less significant by the time in which the novel is set, and it is possible that Scott may have conflated them here with the Assassins, who were very prominent at the time of the Third Crusade, having spread from Persia and occupied a number of hill-fortresses in Syria, causing problems to both Muslims and Christians. The use of a dagger for slaying their victims was the hallmark of the Assassins. 181.12–13 no sure dungeon but the grave the saying has not been located elsewhere. 181.29 of a surety assuredly. 182.6 Montgaillard there are several locations with this name in France. The second element means ‘cheerful’, or (of a person) ‘sprightly’. 182.26 beshrew me devil take me; blow me. 182.33 most venial most worthy of pardon, not particularly important. 182.39–40 with the speed of a lapwing the comparison is probably drawn from Much Ado about Nothing, 3.1.24–25 (‘For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs/ Close by the ground, to hear our conference’) but with a change of sense. 183.3 Sits the wind in that corner Much Ado about Nothing, 2.3.91; see ODEP, 893.

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183.7 many a one comes for wool, and goes back shorn proverbial: Ray, 170; ODEP, 913–14. 183.17 make her terms good succeed in imposing her terms. 183.30 martial law summary justice and execution. 184.6 lawful authority compare The Taming of the Shrew, 5.2.109: ‘awful rule, and right supremacy’. 184.14 the unkindest cut of all see Julius Caesar, 3.2.183. 185.10 Coptish slaves Christian slaves from Egypt. Christians were not supposed to make slaves of Christians (see note to 78.10–11), but as the Copts tended to deny the double nature of Christ, as both God and man, they were often considered to be heretics by the western Church: see ‘Monophysitism’ [meaning ‘only one nature’] in The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, 2nd edn, ed. F. L. Cross and E. A. Livingstone (London, 1974), 931–32. 185.24 we walk in this misty valley of humanity compare Psalm 23.4: ‘though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death’. 185.36 my father’s house a very common biblical phrase. 186.11 Peace with enough of. 186.11 scurril jests Troilus and Cressida, 1.3.148. 186.40 it skills not talking it’s no use talking. 187.21 coolness on her wings see Eaton Stannard Barrett, The Heroine, Or Adventures of Cherubina, 2nd edn, 3 vols (London, 1814), 2.72: ‘The breezes brought coolness on their wings’. The Heroine is another eastern tale. 187.22 merry England see note to 111.27. 187.25 Ascalon see note to 54.27. 187.41 Joseline see note to 90.11 (but this appears to be a different person). 187.43 Nubian Nubia is a region, formerly an independent kingdom, in southern Egypt and northern Sudan. 188.19 Norman-English the language of Richard’s court would have been Norman French (Anglo-Norman). It influenced English and was influenced by it. 188.26 the thousand tribes no specific reference has been found. In Saint Ronan’s Well (1824) Touchwood refers to ‘the thousand tribes of India’: ed. Mark Weinstein,     16, 324.31. 188.28 make noble account of thee hold you in high estimation. 188.30 Ysop Aesop, who is supposed to have been ugly and deformed. His historical existence has been questioned, but he is thought to have lived in the 6th century  . 188.30 Isaack Ishaq al-Mawsili (767–850), an eminent musician at the Baghdad court. Compare Weber, 1.241 (‘The Story of Noureddin and the Fair Persian’): ‘I never heard a more charming voice, or a lute better touched in my life. Isaac, that hitherto I thought the most skilful player in the world, does not come up to her’. Weber observes of ‘Isaac’ in a footnote: ‘A famous player on the lute, that lived at Bagdad at that time’. 188.32 Zohauk for the name see note to 27.18–19. 188.36 Rustan of Zablestan in Persian mythology Rustan performs heroic feats to liberate his king from demons. He was said to have lived in Zabulistan, on the borders of modern Iran and Afghanistan. His story is told in the Shahnameh (History of the Kings) by Ferdausi of Tus (935–1020). 188.37 the Lord of Speech the tongue. 189.7 the touch of a Prometheus in Greek mythology Prometheus created humankind from clay. 189.8–9 Henry the Eighth . . . a man proverbial (‘King Harry loved a man’): ODEP, 425.

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189.9–10 thewes, sinews the phrase, giving thewes the implied sense of ‘muscles’, was adopted by Scott, perhaps from ‘The Marriage of Sir Gawaine’, Part 1, line 30 (Francis James Child, The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, 5 vols (Boston and New York, 1882–98), no. 31). However, the word had meant, less specifically, ‘bodily strength’ or, as Shakespeare uses it, ‘bodily proportions implying strength’ (Julius Caesar, 1.3.81; Hamlet, 1.3.12). 190.2 faint friends the phrase is found in medieval and early modern literature: e.g. The Romaunt of the Rose (partly translated by Geoffrey Chaucer), lines 5563–64 (‘For feynte frendis it wole declare,/And trewe also, what wey they fare’), and Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, Book 4 (1596), 9.27.9: ‘Faint friends, when they fall out, most cruell fomen bee’. 190.9–11 the disunion of his brothers . . . Bishop of Ely the brothers are John (1167–1216) and his illegitimate half-brother Geoffrey (1151?–1212), both of whom had aspirations to the crown. During 1191 the principal contest was between John and Longchamp (one of Richard’s representatives as Justiciar for the southern half of England), who were engaged in a power struggle centering on the custody of royal castles. John won, and Longchamp was forced into exile in October of that year. His exile was made inevitable after he had aroused general hostility by having Geoffrey arrested on his return to England. 190.30 brigandine ‘body armour composed of iron rings or small thin iron plates, sewed upon canvas, linen, or leather, and covered over with similar materials’ (definition quoted in OED). It was introduced in the 15th century. 191.24–25 his beard and eyebrows were shaved . . . buffoon see Weber, 1.35 (‘The Story of the three Calenders, Sons of Kings; and of the five Ladies of Bagdad’), where the three calendars (dervishes) ‘have their heads, beards, and eye-brows shaved’. 192.20 the liquor forbidden by the Prophet see the Qur’an 5.90. 192.23 we will use him conforming i.e. as there is not much difference between a Turk and a Turkish horse we will treat him as we would treat the horse. 192.31–32 Ben’s black bitch on the pound of butter compare the proverbial ‘Like butter in the black dog’s ha’se [throat]’, meaning ‘past Recovery’: James Kelly, A Complete Collection of Scotish Proverbs Explained and made Intelligible to the English Reader (London, 1721), 236 (CLA, 169); ODEP, 94. 192.35–36 not to have a drop . . . eternity see Luke 16.24 where the rich man in hell desires that the beggar Lazarus ‘may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame’. 193.3 dudgeon dagger dagger with a haft made of boxwood or rootwood. See Macbeth, 2.1.46. 193.5 Oop sey es up it goes! (Dutch op ‘up’ and German sei es ‘it is’). 193.6 lambs-wool hot ale mixed with the pulp of roasted apples, and sugared and spiced (OED). 193.12 Allah kerim Arabic God is gracious. 193.14 pottle-deep potation see Othello, 2.3.50. 193.27 Saint Christopher patron saint of travellers. 193.27 our Dickon i.e. King Richard. 194.2–7 motto Macbeth, 2.1.52–56. 194.33 The marabout meanwhile glided on for the source of the episode that follows see Historical Note, 368. 195.2 Charegite see note to 180.36. 195.11 Allah ackbar Arabic God is great(est). 195.16 hangman’s work compare Macbeth, 2.2.27, where Macbeth refers

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to his ‘hangman’s hands’. The hangman would be responsible for quartering those he hanged. 195.36 a Martlemas ox around Martinmas, St Martin’s day (11 November), cattle, sheep and pigs were slaughtered and preserved for eating over the winter. 195.38 Go to go on. 196.17 orvietan or ‘Venetian Treacle’, a preparation believed to be an antidote to poison, invented in the 16th century by a native of Orvieto in central Italy. 196.37 Go to come on! 197.22–23 They were readier in my father’s tent than mine in fact Richard was ‘very well educated’ and ‘he was highly literate’ (Gillingham, 254, 256). 197.25 black diamond the rare black diamond, or carbonado, is found in central Africa (and in Brazil). 197.28 the Enemy the devil. 197.28–29 sow tares among the wheat see Matthew 13.25. 198.3–4 hidden under seven veils this does not refer to Salome’s dance before Herod (the seven veils come as a late 19th-century development of the story); the only significance is in the potency of the number seven. 198.36 thy Westmoreland wit Nevilles were to be Earls of Westmorland from 1397 to the end of the 16th century. 198.42 The will of the King is the law to his slave compare the Roman legal maxim ‘Precepta Regis sunt nobis vincula legis’ (The king’s decrees are to us the chains of the law, i.e. are legally binding on us): William Langland, Piers Plowman (late 14th century), B Text, Prologue, line 145. 200.26–28 motto see George Crabbe, ‘Sir Eustace Grey’ (1807), lines 28–29. 201.10–11 it is better . . . passions see d’Herbelot, 4.529, 570: ‘L’état d’un homme, qui obéit à ses passions, est pire que l’état d’un misérable esclave’; and ‘L’esclave de ses passions est plus digne de mépris, qu’un esclave acheté à prix d’argent’. These parallel proverbs are the only ones in d’Herbelot’s compilation ‘Les maximes des orientaux’ (4.525–84) to be used by Scott. 201.12–13 Ysouf Ben Yagoube . . . King of Egypt for the sale of Joseph son of Jacob to the Ishmaelites, and his onward sale to Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh, see Genesis 37.23–36. There is also a version of the story in the Qur’an 12. 202.9–10 God be our guide . . . the watered field this is not in the Qur’an: it is probably Scott’s invention. 202.27–28 It is unwise . . . lieth forward not a recognised proverb, but possibly a version of the Latin ‘respice finem’ (see ‘Look to the end’ in ODEP, 483). 202.32 check-bridle the term has not been found elsewhere. It probably means ‘check-rein’ or ‘bearing-rein’ (defined by the OED as ‘a short fixed rein from the bit to the saddle, intended to keep the horse’s head up and its neck arched’). 202.36–203.3 human fortune . . . instability of fortune the brief discussion of how to deal with the instability of fortune and the vicissitudes of life is indebted to the most influential work of the middle ages, De Consolatione Philosophiae, by the Roman philosopher Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius (c. 475–525). 202.40 The overloaded appetite . . . honey-comb see Proverbs 27.7. 203.7 thou speakest as one of the foolish Job 2.10. 203.19 the palace of life the human body.

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203.20 Azrael see note to 76.32. 203.21–22 wiser than Solimaun ben Daoud King Solomon, son of David, is proverbially wise. 203.22–23 upon whose signet . . . the elements for the legendary seal or ring of King Solomon see e.g. Weber, 1.261 (‘The Story of Beder, Prince of Persia, and Giahaure, Princess of Samandal’): ‘King Saleh . . . drew a ring off his finger, which was engraved with the same mysterious names of God that were upon Solomon’s seal, that had wrought so many wonders by their virtue’. See also Weber, 2.425 (‘The History of Prince Seyfel Mulouk’): ‘The ring you have on your finger is the seal of Solomon: Whoever is in possession of it, cannot perish by accident: he may cross the wide ocean in the most stormy weather, and need not fear winds nor waves: The wildest beast of prey cannot hurt him; and his power over genies is sovereign. Talismans, and all sorts of schemes and charms, give way to this wonderful seal.’ 203.42–204.1 a strong resemblance . . . Europe for an example see note to 188.36. 204.30–33 To prayer . . . nigh to you the actual call to morning prayer (fajr) runs: ‘Allah is most great . . . I bear witness that there is no god but Allah . . . I bear witness that Mohammed is the Messenger of Allah . . . Come to the prayer . . . Come to the good . . . Allah is most great . . . There is no God but Allah . . . Prayer is better than sleep’. 204.35–36 performed with sand . . . water this practice is sanctioned by Sharia law when no water is available. 205.5 the day-star of redemption Christ. See 2 Peter 1.19 and Revelation 22.16. 205.13 murmuring under his decrees see Josiah Conder, ‘The Lord is King! lift up thy voice’, line 7 (‘murmur at his [God’s] wise decrees’): The Star in the East; With Other Poems (London, 1824), 51 (CLA, 193). 205.15–16 the Searcher of Hearts God. See Psalm 139.23 and Jeremiah 17.10. 206.21–23 the priestly soldiers . . . Islam an English translation of Chapter 48 of the Templars’ Rule (Ut Leo semper feriatur: That the Lyon is alwaies to be strucken) reads: ‘For it is certaine, that it is specially concredited to you, and due from you, to lay downe your life for your Brethren, and to take from the earth the incredulous [unbelievers], who are euer more menacing the Son of the Virgin. We speake this of the Lyon, because he goes about seeking whom he may deuoure, and his hands are against euery one, and euery ones hands are against him.’ The lion is the Devil, as described in 1 Peter 5.8. See Andrew Favine [André Favyne], The Theater of Honour and Knight-hood (London, 1623), Bk 9, Ch. 8 (unpaginated insertion after p. 406): CLA, 270. 207.24 putting . . . to its mettle testing its power. 207.31–32 they seemed to devour the desert compare 2 Henry IV, 2.1.47: ‘He seemed in running to devour the way’. 207.42–43 a hand gallop an easy gallop. 208.5–6 These horses . . . the Borak of the Prophet Muslim legend tells that Gabriel brought a mythical steed, Borak (‘lightning’), a winged horse with a human head, to transport Mohammed to Heaven. 208.11–13 a gift of the Prophet . . . the Lion of God Ali was the cousin, son-in-law and successor of Mohammed, who is said to have given him ‘the surname of the Lion of God’: Gibbon, 5.262 (Ch. 50). 208.22 fetlock-deep Henry V, 4.7.76. 210.21–25 motto not identified; probably by Scott. The name ‘Astolpho’ has romance associations in that one of the knights in Ludovico Ariosto’s Orlando furioso (1516–32) is called Astolfo.

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211.20 take the turban convert to Islam. 212.25 high tartar cap see note to 71.17. 212.40–42 as we had eaten salt together . . . contumely in Arab society those who had eaten salt together were bound by very strict obligations of hospitality. 213.11–13 When the blind man . . . the Divine pleasure see Mark 8.22–26 and John Ch. 9; or the restoration of sight to Saul (with the scales image) at Acts 9.18. 213.24 the fruit of the tree Zacoum, which is the heads of demons see the Qur’an 37.62–68: ‘the tree of Zaqqum, which we have made a test for evildoers . . . grows in the heart of the blazing Fire, and its fruits are like devils’ heads. They will fill their bellies eating from it; then drink scalding water on top of it; then return to the blazing Fire.’ 214.5 ventured me dared to go. 214.14 a buffoon’s wooden falchion court fools often carried toy weapons. 214.23–24 the houri . . . diamond-cup of immortality see the Qur’an e.g. 37.40–49. 214.28 I cry you mercy I beg your pardon. 214.32 bespeaks her very woman shows her to be true woman. 214.41 the Caaba see note to 16.39. 215.18–19 the sword of the Prophet . . . Heaven and Hell see Gibbon, 5.257 (Ch. 50): ‘“The sword,” says Mohammed, “is the key of heaven and of hell”.’ 215.41–42 it is written . . . tents it the sentiment is probably of Scott’s devising. 216.40 in front of battle in the front line of battle. 217.3–4 put thee in a fair way of achieving give you substantial help towards accomplishing. 217.4–6 what says Lokman . . . instruct Luqman was a prophetic figure said to have lived c. 1100  . Traditionally he has sometimes been identified with Aesop. He is cited in the Qur’an 31 admonishing his son, and some of his advice to his son on his deathbed is included in d’Herbelot (4.502–03), but this saying has not been found and may well be Scott’s invention. 217.31–32 the shadow of death Psalm 23.4. The Psalms are regarded by Muslims as divinely inspired. 217.34–35 whose name is . . . lips Scott is presumably thinking of the ‘th’ sound in ‘Edith’, though the Emir has no problems with ‘Kenneth’ at 21.38–39. 217.41 consists with is consistent with. 218.1 By the head of Mahommed the oath is frequently found in early modern literature. 218.2 the tomb at Medina Mohammed’s burial place. 218.15 the signet of Giaougi according to the Republic of Plato (c. 427–348  ), 2.359, Gyges, a 7th-century  Lydian king, found a ring which rendered him invisible. 218.17–25 motto unidentified; probably by Scott. 218.32–34 William with the Long Sword . . . Woodstock see note to 111.3. 219.25–26 daughter of Zion Jerusalem: a common biblical expression. 219.38 morion a helmet without beaver or visor (introduced in the 16th century). 220.12 ever and anon continually at intervals. 220.28 the King of kings God. Revelation 17.14 and 19.16. 220.43 as a priest see note to 90.29–39.

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221.1 puts the monk upon me assumes the role of a monk with me. 221.34 Enguerrand apparently imaginary. This Germanic forename became popular in France and Scotland at the time of the novel’s action. 221.36 Stradiots the Stradiots, or Estradiots, were light cavalry originally raised in Greece and Albania, who served in the Venetian and other armies in the 15th and 16th centuries. The Turkish ‘sipahis’, or feudal cavalry, held fiefs in return for rendering military service to their superiors. They declined in significance from the end of the 16th century as paid regular troops grew in importance, and in 1826 they were suppressed or absorbed into the regular Ottoman army. 221.43 straight upright caps . . . Greeks probably the Phrygian cap: for an illustration see François Boucher, A History of Costume in the West, trans. John Ross (London, 1967), 327 (Illustration 820). 223.3 fastened him up put him back on the leash. 223.24 the Enemy the Devil. 224.1 at such terms together on such (bad) terms with each other. 224.3–4 take some order in take some steps to deal with. 225.28–32 In thine own land . . . crime was confessed the original legend dates back to Plutarch in the 1st century  . In a 12th-century chronicle it was located in the 8th century and the canine duel added, and in the 14th it was brought up to date in the Gesta Romanorum. (See [Jean Baptiste] Bullet, ‘Dissertation sur le chien de Montartgis’, in his Dissertations sur la mythologie françoise (Paris, 1771), 64–92.) There is a good account of the 14th-century version, which was standard in Scott’s time, in Adam FitzAdam, The World, 113 (27 February 1755), 679–80: ‘I cannot help mentioning a very extraordinary     between a man of distinction and a dog, in the year 1371 in presence of king Charles the fifth of France. . . . A  of the court was supposed to have murdered another, who had been missing for some days. This suspicion arose from the mute testimony of the absent person’s dog, a large Irish greyhound, who with uncommon rage, attacked this supposed murderer wherever he met him. As he was a gentleman, and a man of very nice honour (though by the way he really had murdered the man) he could not bear lying under so dishonourable a suspicion, and therefore applied to the king for leave to justify his innocence by single combat with the said dog. The king, being a great lover of justice, granted his suit, ordered the lists to be made ready, appointed the time and named the weapons. The gentleman was to have an offensive club in his hand, the dog a defensive tub to resort to occasionally. The Irish greyhound willingly met this fair inviter at the time and place appointed; for it has always been observable of that particular breed, that they have an uncommon alacrity at single combat. They fought; the dog prevailed, and almost killed the honourable gentleman, who had then the honour to confess his guilt, and of being hanged for it in a very few days.’ The legend was popularised in Scott’s time in a French melodrama by René Charles Guilbert de Pixérécourt first performed in 1814. In the same year an English translation by William Barrymore was put on at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, as The Dog of Montargis; or, The Forest of Bondy (printed several times in the years following, sometimes with the title and subtitle reversed): the victim is Aubri de Montdidier and his murderer Lieutenant [Robert] Macaire. 225.33–36 hidden crimes . . . our race compare The Fair Maid of Perth, ed. Andrew Hook and Donald Mackenzie,     21, 218.18–24: ‘And credit me, as has been indeed proved by numerous instances, that if the murderer shall endeavour to shroud himself . . ., the antipathy which subsists between the dead body, and the hand which dealt the fatal blow that divorced it from the soul, will awaken some imperfect life, under the influence of which

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the veins of the dead man will pour forth at the fatal wounds the blood which has been so long stagnant in the veins’. 226.3–4 there lies our own glove someone who believes he has been offended throws down his glove or gauntlet, which is then picked up by the offender if he wants to answer the challenge. 226.25 bar sinister heraldry bar running from top right to bottom left of a shield (as the spectator views it), popularly believed to indicate illegitimacy. Strictly speaking this should be called a ‘bend sinister’, or ‘baton sinister’ (for which see The Antiquary (1816), ed. David Hewitt,     3, 192.26). 226.31–32 his bastard brother, William of Woodstock see note to 111.3. 226.33 stand godfather to second; support. 227.17 fulfilled of filled with. 227.31–32 a petition to be delivered . . . Psalmist hath it see Psalm 22.20. 227.35 Feriatur Leo Latin let the lion be killed! See note to 206.21–23. 228.4–5 a sparkling goblet of his own wine i.e. a glass of champagne. 228.8 breaches in the walls of our Zion a metaphor (derived from the literal gaps in the walls of Jerusalem often mentioned in scripture) denoting a state of sin or disharmony: see Lamentations Ch. 2, esp. 2.13. 228.23 breathe themselves exercise themselves. 229.1 drawn cast undecided dice-game. 229.7 Woodcock of my side my old idiot. The woodcock is proverbial for stupidity: see ODEP, 913. 229.16 Out upon it Damn it! 229.21–25 motto see Richard Lovelace (1618–58), ‘To Lucasta, Going to the Wars’, lines 9–12: Lucasta, [ed. S. W. Singer], 2 pts (Chiswick, 1817–18), 1.3: CLA, 342. Scott probably ascribed the lines to James Graham, Marquis of Montrose (1612–50), because of the rhythmic and syntactic similarity of Montrose’s ‘To His Mistress’ (‘My dear and only love’). 229.34 Thou canst well of you are skilful in. 229.36 Tristrem in the romance Sir Tristrem edited by Scott, there is an extended description of Tristrem preparing the carcass of a deer (Fytte 1, stanzas 44–47, in Poetical Works, 5.158–60). In his note Scott comments: ‘The “mystery of woods and of rivers” was a serious subject of study to the future candidate for the honours of chivalry’, and adds that it was ‘universally believed, that our hero, Sir Tristrem, was the first by whom the chase was reduced into a science’ (5.381). 229.37 at force hunting in the open, with the dogs in full cry. 229.41 consist with be in accordance with. 230.16 are all on fire see Henry V, 2.Chorus.1. 230.20 to hear is to obey see note to 135.12. 230.28 lo you there look you. 231.19–20 what thou doest do quickly see John 13.27. 232.24 what like is the Nubian slave what is the Nubian slave like? 232.31 the bow of Cupid Cupid, the boy-god of love in Roman mythology, is traditionally furnished with a bow which he uses to shoot arrows to make the recipients fall in love. 233.10–11 in our camp . . . the matter i.e. there is a lot of gossip in the Crusader camp. The ‘Prelate of St Jude’s’ has not been identified. 233.11 a bird of the air will carry the matter see Ecclesiastes 10.20: ‘Curse not the king, no not in thy thought; and curse not the rich in thy bedchamber: for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.’ The expression has become proverbial: G. L.

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Apperson, English Proverbs and Proverbial Phrases (London, 1929), 48. Compare ODEP, 60. 234.23 in very deed in reality. 234.39–40 cloth of gold luxury material with threads of gold in it. 236.12–24 motto for the first two stanzas see the opening lines of ‘Song of Genius’ by Helen D’Arcy Cranstoun (1765–1838): included in The Modern Scottish Minstrel, ed. Charles Rogers, 6 vols (Edinburgh, 1855–57), 1.169. Helen Cranstoun was the wife of Dugald Stewart, whose literary salons Scott regularly attended in the early 1790s, and her brother was one of Scott’s close friends. Scott could have read the poem in manuscript, or heard it read at a salon; the third verse may either be by Helen Cranstoun, or have been added by Scott. 236.33 hanging upon an elder-tree the elder is traditionally the tree on which Judas hanged himself in remorse for betraying Jesus: see Love’s Labour’s Lost, 5.2.599. 237.12 Blondel de Nesle Blondel de Nesle was an important trouvère from Picardy, but his history is obscure, and the legend of his discovery of Richard through song is merely that: see note to 160.18–22, and Gillingham, 233. 237.18–19 trouveurs of Provence . . . Normandy the distinction is now normally made between trouvères from northern France (including Normandy), who mostly composed epics of battle, and troubadours from the south, much concerned with songs of love. Each composed and sang in their own tongue. 237.35 Not a whit not at all! 237.41–42 a very mule . . . obstinacy proverbial: see ODEP, 550. 237.42 a hall—a hall! exclamation calling for space to be cleared. Romeo and Juliet, 1.5.24. 238.4–5 have my ears tickled i.e. have my ears excited with a pleasurable sound: see OED, tickle, verb 3. 238.6–7 with a woodcock’s feather see note to 229.7. 238.15 the Joyeuse Science see note to 26.30. 238.19–20 more kicks than compliments compare ‘more kicks than halfpence’, known as ‘the monkey’s allowance’: see ‘Monkey’, in Francis Grose, A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 3rd edn (London, 1796: CLA, 156), and ODEP, 541. 238.40–41 King Isaac’s long-saved Cyprus . . . Famagousta see note to 151.8. Famagusta was the principal harbour town taken by Richard on his arrival in Cyprus. For ‘long-saved Cyprus’ (i.e. old wine) see note to 94.24. 238.41 fill to prepare to drink a toast to. 239.1–2 horse-hair or wire harps were strung with one or the other. 239.5 well pulled well drunk, with the implication that all or most of it has been drunk at a go. 239.17–18 the great Romance of King Arthur, which lasts for three days the body of stories about Arthur and his associates became very copious, though none would be as long as this suggests. 239.22 never stop don’t stop. 239.33 at a season at a certain time; once. 239.38 the gay science see note to 26.30. 239.42–43 one whom the King delighted to honour see Esther 6.6, 7, 9, 11. 240.18–19 the lowly broom . . . humility see note to 106.10–11. 240.32 thy bow is broken proverbial: compare ODEP, 78–79. 240.38 of yore in former times. 241.2 Listen, lords, in bower and hall the opening line of ‘The Birth

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of St. George’ by Richard Johnson (1573–1659?), included in Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, [ed. Thomas Percy], 4th edn, 3 vols (London, 1794), 3.219: CLA, 172. 241.10 the Norman language i.e. the French spoken in Normandy, Anglo-Norman. 241.12 The Bloody Vest in his ‘Essay on Chivalry’ Scott cites a similar tale told by Jaques de Basin in which a married woman challenges her three lovers to enter a tournament dressed only in one of her shifts. Two refuse, but the third fights and is victorious. He then requires the woman to wear the soiled, torn and bloody garment over her rich clothing to the celebratory banquet. She does so in triumph, and her husband acquiesces (Prose Works, 6.35). 241.13 Benevent Benevento near Naples (see 242.10). 241.16 the Baptist’s tournament St John the Baptist’s day, 24 June. 241.17 Lincoln green bright green material. 242.7–16 Thou hast changed . . . Alexandrines Blondel’s accentual metre changes from 4 accents per line to 6. Alexandrines (with 6 accents and 12 syllables), were used in some French medieval romances; the form was revived in the 16th century, and was later to become the normal metre for French drama. In English verse the commonest metre has been 5 accents in a line of 10 syllables, but Alexandrines have occasionally been used, as in the final line of the Spenserian stanza. 242.16 come more twangingly off compare Twelfth Night, 3.4.170–71: ‘with a swaggering accent sharply twang’d off ’. 242.27 fiery Chios wine the red wine from Chios, an island in the Aegean Sea, has been famous since Classical times. 243.23 He flung down his warder throwing down the warder (the baton or truncheon carried as a symbol of office) indicated that a tournament should stop, while raising it indicated that they should begin: see OED, warder, noun2. Compare Richard II, 1.3.118 and Henry IV, 4.1.125. 243.41 in front of the sun presumably in public. 245.33 the sons of Ishmael the Arabs (see note to 15.38). 245.37–38 the dishonour of a Christian maiden . . . Spain according to legend Julián, Count of Ceuta in N Africa, sent his daughter to be educated at the court of Rodrigo, King of the Visigoths, at Toledo. Believing that Rodrigo had ravished her, Julián in revenge facilitated the Muslim invasion of the peninsula beginning in 711. 245.41 a Christian sacrament marriage is one of 7 sacraments recognised by the Catholic Church. 246.17 this new battle of the Standard in 1138 the forces of David I, King of Scots, were defeated by the army of King Stephen of England near Northallerton (Yorkshire). The battle was named the Standard after the ship’s mast (bearing the banners of several local saints) that had been erected in the midst of the English army. 246.30–33 motto compare John Hughes, The Siege of Damascus. A Tragedy (London, 1720), 15 (2.1.76–78). For ‘Tecbir’ see Simon Ockley, The Conquest of Syria, Persia, and Ægypt, 2 vols (London, 1708), 1.111: ‘The poor Christians, assoon as ever they heard the Tecbîr, (so the Arabs call the crying out Allàh Acbar [‘God is greater’]) were sensible that the City was lost’. 247.21 Abdallah el Hadgi an imaginary character. His soubriquet, Hadji, means that he has made the pilgrimage to Mecca, as required of the faithful. 247.22 the race or tribe of Hashem Hashem was the great-grandfather of Mohammed. 247.23 a green turban Scott would have encountered the green turban

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as a sign of distinction in Gibbon (5.289–90: Ch. 50): ‘In the various conditions of princes, or doctors, or nobles, or merchants, or beggars, a swarm of the genuine or fictitious descendants of Mohammed and Ali is honoured with the appellation of sheiks, or sherifs, or emirs. In the Ottoman empire they are distinguished by a green turban; receive a stipend from the treasury; are judged only by their chief; and, however debased by fortune or character, still assert the proud pre-eminence of their birth.’ See also the expression ‘green-turbaned tomb’ for the tomb of an emir in [James Justinian Morier], The Adventures of Hajji Baba, of Ispahan, 3 vols (London, 1824), 3.239: CLA, 259. See further [Thomas Hope], Anastasius: or, Memoirs of a Greek; written at the close of the eighteenth century, 3 vols (London, 1819), 1.369: ‘Emir: or Shareef: names given to the descendants of Mohammed’s daughter, who in every city of the Empire have their own distinct tribunals, and the exclusive privilege of wearing turbans of the prophet’s favourite color, green; with which it would be a profanation to adorn an inferior part of the body’. 248.22 the water-drinker Mirglip see ‘Mirglip the Persian; or, Fincal the Dervise of the Groves’ (Weber, 3.556–88). The tale is a moralising one. It recounts the adventures of the Sultan of Persia as he goes about his city in disguise hoping to hear praise of himself; instead he everywhere hears of the virtues of the humble Mirglip, who later takes the sultan on a journey outside the city and teaches him many pious and enlightening lessons, and finally exposes the wickedness of the sultan’s trusted vizier. The tale is by James Ridley, and was included in his The Tales of the Genii (1764), which were originally published pseudonymously, ascribed to Sir Charles Morell. 249.2–3 howling wilderness Deuteronomy 32.10. 249.18 Alla hu! the full phrase would be Allahu akbar: God is great(est). 249.35 ever and anon continually, at intervals. 252.16 the sea of light the name is that of the Darya-i-Nur, a large diamond looted in India in 1739 by the Shah of Persia, and now part of the Iranian Crown Jewels. 252.43–253.2 with the terrors . . . restive steed see Gibbon, 6.120 (Ch. 59): ‘his tremendous name was employed by the Syrian mothers to silence their infants; and if a horse suddenly started from the way, his rider was wont to exclaim, “Dost thou think king Richard is in that bush?”’ 253.13 House of Peers the House of Lords did not begin to develop until the 14th century. At the time of the novel’s action the King governed with the advice of the Magnum Concilium, a large body of lay and ecclesiastical magnates, and the assistance of the Curia Regis, a much smaller institution of semi-professional juridical and economic advisers. 253.14 Westminster-Hall a large medieval hall, originally built at the end of the 11th century, in the Palace of Westminster. 253.36 taken order for made arrangements for. 254.6 brand flaming there is a word-play on brand as ‘sword’ and ‘torch’. 254.7 Azrael see note to 76.32. 255.2–3 the Excalibar of King Arthur the sword which Arthur drew from its place in a stone to demonstrate his kingship. 255.10–12 a dull blue colour . . . the armourers ‘Damascus steel [see note to 14.17] is characterized by exceptional hardness and by a watered, streaked appearance caused by the varying carbon levels of the original material. . . . The patterns that result after quenching and finishing are distinctive and complex.’ (The New Encyclopædia Britannica, 15th edn (Chicago, 1974, 1997), 3.865. 255.12–18 Wielding this weapon . . . violence compare [Thomas Hope], Anastasius: or, Memoirs of a Greek; written at the close of the eighteenth

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century, 3 vols (London, 1819), 2.419: ‘The felt: which the Mamlukes practice to cleave at a single stroke with their sabres’. 255.36 a Tartar cap see note to 71.17. 255.40–42 The sick man . . . upon him the saying is probably Scott’s invention. 256.1 Mahound see note to 33.42–43. 256.5–6 the tattered robe . . . dervise compare the proverb ‘The habit does not make the monk’ (ODEP, 152). 256.42–257.1 Our poets . . . her garment the saying is probably Scott’s invention. For ‘not worthy to salute the hem of her garment’ see Samuel Richardson, Clarissa, 7 vols (London, 1748), 4.149–50 (Letter 27), which derives from Matthew 14.36. 257.5–8 Lokman . . . augmented for Lokman see note to 217.4–6. The saying is probably Scott’s invention. 257.20 Omrah lord. The term was mostly used in Moghul India. 257.24 Schiraz a Persian town renowned for its white wine. 257.29–30 wine, that lightener of the human heart see Psalm 104.15: ‘wine that maketh glad the heart of man’. 257.31–32 like chaff down the wind see Psalm 35.5: ‘Let them be as chaff before the wind’. 258.3 Our Lady of Lanercost see note to 93.24. 258.14–15 the Lion, whom all men acknowledge the king of brutes see e.g. Richard II, 5.1.34. 259.14 Zenana harem. The term is used especially in India and Persia. 259.15 rote an instrument like a zither, with two courses of strings, one on each side of a triangular frame, played with the fingers. Tyrwhitt reports a 10th-century assertion ‘that it was the ancient Psalterium, but altered in its shape and with an additional number of strings’ (in The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer, ed. Thomas Tyrwhitt, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Oxford, 1798), 2.617–18: CLA, 155). 259.16 bear burthen provide an accompaniment. 260.12 By the mass oath by the Eucharist. 260.32 loved within his own degree loved someone of his own rank. 261.6–8 motto Thomas Gray, ‘The Bard’ (1757), lines 83–84. 263.38 That is not according to the canon it is generally held that the validity of a sacrament is not affected by any unworthiness in the person administering it, since it has its efficacy through the merits of Christ. 264.1–2 the sacrament confession to a priest is one of the 7 sacraments recognized by the Catholic Church. 264.32–33 he must have no other confessor than myself one of the accusations made against the Templars in 1307 was that they ‘were not permitted to confess except to the chaplains of the Temple’: G. A. Campbell, The Knights Templar: Their Rise and Fall (London, 1937), 262. 265.26 the eastern extremity Scott has (typically) forgotten that the lists run N and S (261.15). 266.43 Milan steel Milan was famous for its steel in the middle ages. 267.18 Azrael’s seal for Azrael see note to 76.32. 267.22 the life of the oldest patriarch Methuselah, who lived to be 969. See Genesis 5.27. 268.2–3 the Ethiopian . . . his spots see Jeremiah 13.23. 268.14 a bower like those of Paradise there are several descriptions of the bowers of Paradise in the Qur’an: see e.g. 76.14. 268.16–17 What saith the Book itself . . . look upon it the Book is presumably the Qur’an, but the citation is not to be found there and is probably of Scott’s devising.

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268.17–21 He that would not be burned . . . gaze at it none of these apothegms has been found elsewhere. They are probably Scott’s inventions. 268.26 black camel-skin tent see note to 18.39–40 for the correct composition. 269.21 David Earl of Huntingdon see Historical Note, 372. 270.4 in articulo mortis Latin at the moment of death. 270.18–19 a pilgrimage to Saint Ninian St Ninian was reputed to have been the first missionary to the Picts in the 5th century, and to have founded a monastery at Whithorn in SW Scotland, which became an important site of pilgrimage in the middle ages both from within Scotland and from further afield. 270.20–21 the Teutonic knights . . . Borussia the House of the Hospitallers of Saint Mary of the Teutons in Jerusalem was founded in 1189–90 in the Holy Land as a nursing fraternity. It quickly developed into a military order, and in the course of the 13th century it ruthlessly subdued and converted the pagan territory of Prussia (Latin Borussia). 270.31 wrote myself called myself. 271.1 Mock not, lest your bands be made strong see Isaiah 28.22: ‘Now therefore be ye not mockers, lest your bands be made strong’. 271.18–19 We must wait his time with watching and prayer compare Matthew 26.41 (‘Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation’) and Ephesians 6.18 (‘Praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit, and watching thereunto with all perseverance and supplication for all saints’). 271.19 with fear and with hope compare Psalm 33.18 (‘Behold, the eye of the Lord is upon them that fear him, upon them that hope in his mercy’) and 147.11 (‘The Lord taketh pleasure in them that fear him, in those that hope in his mercy’). 272.8 pilaus ‘an Oriental dish, consisting of rice boiled with fowl, meat, or fish, and spice, raisins, etc.’ (OED). 272.11 Mount Lebanon the uplands of modern Lebanon, whose mountains average over 2000m in height. 272.17–20 a long lance displayed a shroud . . . must die Gibbon (6.123) notes ‘the display of a shroud, instead of a standard, to admonish the East of the instability of human greatness’, but he regards it as a Western invention. The inscription may have been suggested by a passage in ‘The Sixth Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor’ (Weber, 1.85) referring to the Sultan of the Indies: ‘While the king is on his march, the officer, who is before him on the same elephant, cries, from time to time, with a loud voice, Behold the great monarch, the potent and redoubtable sultan of the Indies, whose palace is covered with 100,000 rubies, and who possesses 20,000 crowns of diamonds. Behold the crowned monarch, greater than the great Solima [Solomon], and the great Mihrage. After he has pronounced these words, the officer behind the throne cries in his turn, This monarch, so great and so powerful, must die, must die, must die.’ 273.9 Accipe hoc! Latin Take this! 273.42 does on puts on; assumes. 274.5–22 While they were speaking . . . from the veins for the source of this incident in Vertot’s The History of the Knights of Malta see Historical Note, 368–69. 274.33 Maronites a Christian sect of Syrian origin, based in Lebanon. Founded by disciples of St Maron in the early 5th century, it professed Monothelitism, the belief that Christ had only one will, not the two (divine and human) maintained by the rest of the Church. For this reason they were considered as heretical and condemned by the Council of Constantinople

430

 

680, but since 1182 they have been in communion with the Catholic Church. They habitually made common cause with the Crusaders in the 12th century. 274.38 simoom ‘a hot, dry, suffocating sand-wind which sweeps across the African and Asiatic deserts at intervals during the spring and summer’ (OED). 275.22–23 not to break a wounded reed see Isaiah 42.3: ‘A bruised reed shall he not break’. 276.40 idolaters strict Islamic teaching has always prohibited the depiction of any living thing in images. 276.40 stocks and stones gods of wood and stone, a standard phrase for idols from Old English times. 276.40 graven images a common expression in the Old Testament. See e.g. the prohibition in Exodus 20.4, Leviticus 26.1 and Deuteronomy 5.8 (books regarded as inspired by Muslims). 277.6 let us run . . . grinded lances i.e. let us have a bout of jousting, but using sharpened lances rather than the blunted weapons normally employed on such occasions. 277.12–13 your own Scripture sayeth . . . scattered see Zechariah 13.7, Matthew 26.31 and Mark 14.27. 277.33 the celebrated talisman see Historical Note, 000.

GLOSSARY

This selective glossary defines single words; phrases are treated in the Explanatory Notes. It includes words in Scots, English dialect, and foreign languages, as well as archaic and technical terms, and occurrences of familiar words in senses that are likely to be strange to the modern reader. For each word (or clearly distinguishable sense) glossed, up to four occurrences are normally noted; when a word occurs more than four times in the novel in a particular sense, only the first instance is given, followed by ‘etc.’. Orthographical variants of single words are listed together, normally with the most common use first. Sometimes the most economical and effective way of defining a word or expanding a definition is to refer the reader to the appropriate explanatory note. abide stay 43.38 etc.; await 44.6, 143.6; reside 79.12 abject wretch 169.42 accessible vulnerable 79.7 accession attack, fit 77.16; addition 99.1; assent 164.24 accommodation comfortable provision 12.27 etc. accurate exact, perfect 242.29 accurately carefully 52.6, 254.28 achieve complete 239.17 address skill 7.41 etc. affright fear 150.7 alan wolf-hound 58.28, 72.42 alloy depreciatory admixture 119.7 alongst along 3.12, 221.8 a-many a considerable number 161.33 amphibious occupying two positions 221.1 an if 87.2, 229.12 anchoret hermit 19.7 etc. ancient long-standing 212.8 anciently formerly 12.26 appeal challenge 226.4 appellant challenger 225.30, 227.9 appointments equipment 220.36, 222.4 Arabesque pattern with intertwined motifs 272.4 Arabian Arabian horse 252.24 Araby Arabia 253.3 arblast cross-bow 119.41, 120.1,

122.22 ardour fierce heat 21.12 argosy large merchant vessel 218.21 associated formed 90.29 assuming taking for granted that one has a right to do so and so 117.43 astrolabe astronomical calculator 81.17 astucious cunning, crafty 65.33 atabal kettle-drum 76.16 avaunt be gone 50.15 awful awe-inspiring 4.12 etc. baaren-hauter see note to 61.25 baculus see note to 90.35–37 bagnio place of detention for slaves 95.36 baleful harmful 141.5 ban proclamation of outlawry 167.9 ban-dog mastiff, bloodhound 108.4 barb Moorish horse 6.28, 34.41 baret see note to 4.23 barriers lists 62.19; palisades 66.34 bauble jester’s baton 75.5, 105.26 bedizen array 151.6 belie calumniate, misrepresent 19.10 bent grass 241.14 beshrew see note to 182.26 bestad beset 190.2 bethink for 60.22 etc. see notes bevy company of women 89.23, 170.9 431

432



bezant, byzant for 109.22 etc. see note to 109.22 bickering flaming 268.19 biggin child’s cap 60.2 bill (man armed with) halberd (weapon combining spear and battle-axe) 95.2 etc. birl spin 191.37 blackamoor black-skinned African 259.21 bluntness rudeness 274.7 bodement prediction 272.42 bolt arrow 119.41, 122.23; thunderbolt 52.35 boon adjective jovial, convivial 247.27 boon noun favour 50.21 etc. boor countryman 242.13 bow bowman 95.2, 111.24, 111.24 bower chamber 241.2, 241.15 bower-lady lady of the chamber 182.41 bower-woman chamber-woman, personal attendant 182.6 boxwood hard fine-grained wood 188.10 brand piece of wood that is burning 174.15; stigma 275.38; for 254.6 see note bravado action of bold defiance 117.39 bray make a loud harsh noise 261.6 breviary service-book 85.4 brigandine see note to 190.30 broider embroider 115.24, 155.2 brook accept, suffer, endure 65.2 etc. brutal resembling brute beast(s) 110.9, 165.27 buckler small round shield 6.39 etc. budget bag, wallet 238.23 buff dressed ox-leather with dullyellow colour and velvety surface 59.19 buff-coat coat made of buff leather 58.12 burgonet see note to 95.32 burthen burden 43.32 etc.; for 259.16 see note bushel large measure 128.36 but unless 166.27 caftan long under-tunic tied at the waist with a girdle 6.25, 71.19, 191.18 caitiff wretch, villain 196.24, 221.1, 224.6

Caliph see note to 19.22 camiscia Italian loose robe, gown 142.19, 155.19 cangiar, canjiar Persian (khanjar) dagger 32.30, 194.37, 252.19 canon decree of the Church 169.29, 263.38 capa Latin (cappa) cape, cloak 253.41 caracole verb execute a half-turn 222.13; caper 248.37 caracole noun half-turn 265.26 carcanet ornamental collar or necklace 151.7 carry conduct 232.43 casque helmet 21.16, 269.13 cassock long military coat 210.32 castrametation laying out a camp 70.9 cavalier horseman 6.26 etc. cearments grave-clothes 43.38 certes assuredly 139.7 chafe irritate 110.33, 145.22, 215.8 chafing-dish dish for heating things laid on it 70.43 chain-work chain-mail 5.10 challenge claim 85.34 chance verb happen, occur 11.34 etc. chance noun matter, occurrence 163.39 chanticleer cock 140.13 chaplet garland 45.1, 45.26; string 207.22 chappe cape or cloak 253.41 check see note to 119.42 cherish encourage, cheer 242.27 Circassian from the northern Caucasus 251.39 clarion shrill-sounding war trumpet 267.39 clerk cleric, scholar 268.3 close close-fitting 38.36, 41.26, 253.42 cloud hide 206.27 cognizance heraldic bearing 106.43, 108.7, 149.1, 240.18 coif woman’s cap 60.1 coil disturbance, fuss 115.14 cold-blooded unimpassioned 118.6, 122.39, 167.25 collation light meal 268.26 colour favourable appearance 181.31; pretext 247.15 combination conjunction 272.37 commodious serviceable, handy

 161.16 commodity quantity, lot 270.32 composition contract, agreement 137.2, 173.37, 245.7 condition status 49.12 etc.; plural behaviour 19.37 conference conversation, discussion 54.14 etc. conformable submissive, compliant 193.4 conforming accordingly 192.23 conjuration magic spell 100.34 conjure beseech, implore 87.37, 123.22, 157.2 considerate careful, deliberate 33.18, 219.39 consideration high social status 248.7 contemn despise 28.40 contumely insulting contempt 191.14; disgrace 212.42 convoy accompaniment on a journey 19.2 copartment compartment 54.5, 130.10 Copt Egyptian Christian 191.17 Coptick Egyptian Christian 233.19 Coptish Egyptian Christian 185.10 corse corpse 136.41 coronal coronet 98.8 corslet piece of defensive armour covering the body 95.6, 266.43, 267.1 costard head 193.28 cote outstrip 75.25 (see note) couch lower (lance) ready to charge 6.43, 216.36, 266.24 couchant for 4.40 etc. see note to 4.40–41 countenance noun encouragement, moral support 75.11, 75.13, 174.1 countenance verb encourage 88.37, 172.5; favour 210.14 coz familiar form of address 245.11, 246.11, 246.19 craven coward 264.27 credence see note to 76.17 creed belief 51.12 cubit measurement (18–22 inches, or 46–56 cm) 180.33 cuirass body-armour 123.2 curious skilful, cunning 78.33, 79.31; interesting 30.45 curiously carefully, exquisitely,

433

cunningly 78.31 curtal-axe for 58.43, 142.11 and 145.6 see note to 58.43 cymar under-garment, chemise 28.1 Damascene from Damascus 252.1 darksome gloomy 27.43 day-spring day-break 41.32 decision settlement 10.3, 227.8 degree social standing, rank 48.2 etc. demesnes lands 64.11 deranged put out of order 154.1; 238.1 dervise Muslim friar 159.27 etc. descant discourse 208.1 despardieux French oath ye gods! 60.33 despite in spite 32.1, 126.27; spite 55.37, 148.37, 225.3; for 145.15 see note device emblematic figure 4.42, 149.2, 190.36 devise talk 11.22 devoir duty 50.28 etc. devoted (indicative of being) doomed 141.20 dial-stone sun-dial 122.30 diapason swelling sound 267.42 dine dinner 244.8 discipline scourge 40.5 discover disclose, reveal 41.42 etc. dispatch speed, promptitude 131.4, 202.7 displayed spread 210.37 disqualifying incapacitating 199.34 distend extend, spread out 102.6 divan Oriental council of state 159.20 dogged awkward, surly 87.13 doit Dutch coin of minimal value 235.24 donative gift 140.38 doom judgment, sentence 29.12 etc. doomed destined, fated 48.26 etc.; sentenced 160.6, 186.2 drachm 4 grams 196.16 drench administer water or medicine to (an animal) 192.15 dromond very large ship 136.35 drug chemical 225.23 drumble hold back 195.32 ducat gold coin 258.25 dudgeon see note to 193.3 ebriety drunkenness 194.23

434



ebullition sudden outburst 9.12 een just 187.15 eke also 244.8 element water 15.8 elementary elemental, personifying natural phenomena 27.21, 28.12, 29.13 elixir powerful remedy for a disease 82.14, 82.43, 209.22 elritch weird, unnatural, frightful, hideous 52.11 emir Arab military commander 7.25 etc. emprize enterprise 63.8 enchased see note to 16.42 engaged entangled 131.34 engross monopolise 106.22, 236.38 enow enough 177.30 entertainer host 106.24 enthusiast religious zealot 180.38, 191.13, 191.29, 194.40 Epicurean person devoted to the pursuit of pleasure 101.18 errant wandering in search of adventures 76.6 erst formerly 258.37 espial observation 222.26 esquire squire, knight’s attendant 71.35 etc. Estradiot Stradiot (see note to 221.36) 222.32 event outcome 32.15 etc. ever always 17.20 etc. exhale draw up 4.8 exuberance abundance 211.15 fain obliged 7.17, 7.19, 242.12; gladly, willingly, with pleasure 254.39 fairy delicate 153.35 fakir Moslem religious beggar 37.1 falchion sword 4.30, 214.14, 243.12 fare go, travel 241.21, 241.21 fault commit a fault 185.40, 187.8 faun see note to 31.15–17 fealty fidelity 17.13, 28.21 flag rush 35.24 flagon, flaggon large bottle or container for drink 61.24 etc. flask bottle 36.22, 236.28, 238.39, 244.23 fleet nimble, swift 10.11, 34.34, 222.32 flighty crazy 122.27 flitting shifting 4.17, 12.17; fleet-

ing, unsubstantial 39.16, 47.10 flourished embroidered 104.28 fond infatuated, silly 121.41 fool jester 75.6 etc. forbear tolerate 172.28 foremost first 242.6 forest-code conservation laws applying to royal forests 73.37 Frank Christian 11.3 etc. Frankish Christian 72.12, 98.39, 138.6 fraught laden 165.14, 238.23 frist see note to 86.15 front-stall appendage to bridle covering horse’s forehead 5.11 frounced gathered in folds 51.26 fulfilled see note to 227.17 furlong 220 yards (67 metres) 122.18 fury infernal spirit 170.4 fytte part, section 242.6, 243.9 gab boast, brag 11.35, 11.40 gaber French boast, brag 11.42 gage wager 127.17, 127.24 gain-stander opponent 107.17 galloway-nag small strong horse 146.27 gasconade extravagant boasting 11.43 gear matter, business 71.35, 258.19, 263.30; nonsense 146.43 genial festive 15.5 genie Arabian mythology jinn, sprite, goblin 26.37, 29.14, 191.40 genius see note to 121.3 gent noble 241.17 Gentile pagan 31.18 gentle noble 49.14 etc. gentles gentlefolk, ladies and gentlemen 238.41, 242.6 gi’ Scots give 102.28 Giaour pejorative Christian 80.11, 215.3 gill rocky ravine 56.40, 236.27, 239.29 gittern cithern, guitar-like instrument 259.4 glance gleam, flash 49.25 etc. glazened glazed 168.7 glee sport 11.35, 239.15 God-a-mercy interjection gracious me! 160.12 God’den see note to 93.14 godfather sponsor, second 228.24 gorget piece of armour for the throat

 265.33, 269.11 Gothic Teutonic 13.11, 14.18 grace verb show favour to 129.24, 234.14 grace noun favour 50.25 etc. grace-cup parting draught 95.22, 95.23 gramarye magic 100.35, 255.21 gratulation greeting, welcome 236.25 grinded sharpened 277.6 gripe grip 32.6 etc. grudge trouble, vex 139.16 guerdon recompense, reward 48.16, 198.43, 199.1 guild-brother member of a guild 238.14 guise manner 265.18 gulph pit 213.22 haik, haick oblong cloth used as cloak 209.39, 253.4 hakim physician 134.26 etc. halloo shout 135.8, 196.13, 250.41 halt stumble 180.34 haram harem 17.14 etc. (see note to 17.14) harbinger forerunner 32.12 hardihood boldness 13.29, 54.34, 57.10 hardy bold 87.12 harness armour 8.2, 20.14, 38.38, 187.33 hauberk long coat of mail or mail covering for neck and shoulders 4.26 etc. hazard verb bet 226.2 hazard noun chance 191.8; for 126.11 see note to 126.10–11 headsman executioner 146.32, 161.34 heathenesse the heathen world 59.32, 153.34, 168.37; heathenism 75.30 Hegira see note to 80.36 high luxuriously, richly 69.25 hoff-narr German (Hofnarr) court jester 105.24, 105.43 hollo shout 34.20, 196.38, 197.31 hollow sepulchral 53.40, 165.37 horn drinking-horn, drinking vessel 192.22, 192.22, 193.2 host army 3.11 etc. houri nymph of the Muslim Paradise 16.20 etc. housings cloth coverings, trappings

435

10.21 howling dreary 249.2 ill-conditioned wickedly disposed 238.18 imaum see note to 52.21 impalpable very fine 10.25, 21.14 import imply, indicate 34.32 imposition deception 11.29 impuissant powerless 204.18 indifferently pretty 66.40 induction introduction 174.19 intelligence understanding 50.8 etc.; intelligent spirit 159.9, 160.1, 161.12 interested self-seeking 137.8 iron strong, robust 219.16 jack-an-ape ape, monkey 254.35 jade inferior or broken-down horse 203.4 jealous suspiciously careful in vigilance or guarding, mistrustful 49.29 etc. jealousy suspicious vigilance 259.13 jerrid wooden javelin 23.18 jongleur juggler 235.22 jubilee jubilation 112.19 juggling cheating 198.32 justly precisely 109.19 kaisar emperor 108.7 kebla see note to 39.4 kerchief handkerchief 115.25, 115.25 khirkhah dervish’s gown made of shreds of cloth torn in ecstatic fits 159.30 kirtle gown 148.42, 151.7 knave rascal 147.10 etc. knight-errant knight wandering in search of adventures 126.4 Kurdman Kurd 38.19 lai, lay see note to 26.32 lambs-wool see note to 193.6 lance horse-soldier armed with a lance 22.9 etc. lance-knecht see note to 61.25 lanthorn lantern 34.24, 53.15 last utmost 100.43, 111.42 Latin western European, Catholic 36.40, 37.16, 91.3, 96.32 lauds the first morning service 44.19 leading-staff, leading staff staff borne by a commanding officer 62.36, 75.5 league roughly 3 miles or 5 km 18.31, 122.18

436



leasing lying, falsehood 127.16 leech doctor 67.10 etc. lelies see note to 63.13 levee rising from bed 150.30 libbard leopard 127.18 list noun inclination 238.4 list verb1 please 86.15, 121.43, 137.14, 150.22 list verb2 listen 11.3 los renown 68.36, 68.43 lout make a gesture of respect 241.30, 243.27 love-gear business of love 186.38 lucre financial gain 213.18 lyme-hound bloodhound 102.31 mace heavy club 7.23 etc. mace-of -arms mace 5.9 macerate cause the body to grow thin by fasting 157.29 maceration mortification 174.20 magian magician 213.23 magnanimous noble in spirit, great in courage 91.11 major-domo master of the household 201.37 mandate command 165.1, 270.8 mangonel engine for casting missiles 60.23 marabout Muslim hermit 191.12 etc. maravedi Spanish coin of small value 235.24 marmozet small monkey, term of abuse for a man 226.26 marry to be sure 258.16, 258.17 Martlemas see note to 195.36 master sir 237.17, 269.25 mate equal in eminence 226.6 mazer drinking cup 272.10 mean-looking humble in appearance 222.23 measure metre 242.7, 242.17, 242.23; melody 268.38 mediciner physician 76.28 etc. mêlée, melée hand-to-hand fight 76.4, 160.24 methinks it seems to me 11.25 etc. minion derogatory slave, underling 127.28, 156.2, 156.27 minnesinger minstrel 99.20 misproud arrogant 221.1 mollah mullah, Moslem cleric 20.7, 29.16 morion see note to 219.38 mortier cap 21.17

Moslemah Moslems 15.6 etc. mother see note to 158.37 muezzin public crier 72.10, 95.25, 204.28, 261.38 murmur noun grumbling 71.25 murmur verb complain 48.37, 84.43, 96.25, 205.13 murrain infectious disease 77.34 napkin small towel 211.9 Nazarene Christian 8.27 etc. nearly closely 53.17 etc. necromancer magician 61.40 necromantic magical 50.13 nervous sinewy 38.40, 51.10 Nierenstein Rhine wine from Nierenstein near Mainz 228.27, 229.10, 229.19 night-crow see note to 52.14 night-weed night-dress 242.3 nooning mid-day meal 228.26 Nubian for 187.43 etc. see note to 187.43 obeisance bow, gesture of profound respect 91.38 etc.; homage 219.14, 221.16, 236.41 oblivious forgetful 229.9 observance attentive care 148.36; dutiful service 104.41, 156.30, 193.16; observation 212.34 obstreperous noisy, vociferous 193.14 obtestation solemn adjuration 68.41 Oriflamme for 115.33 and 116.24 see note to 115.32–33 orison prayer 39.6, 43.24 orvietan see note to 196.17 Ouie see note to 92.43–93.1 out be extinguished, go out 151.35 overlook keep an eye on 222.24 over-wrought worked to excess 76.42 pacification peace treaty 173.24 pale domain 95.28, 245.33 pall altar frontal 150.20; rich robe 244.6 palmetto fan palm 79.37 palter equivocate 87.5; deal crookedly, use trickery 198.33 panoply full armour 5.14, 38.35, 206.4 paramour lady-love 156.20 parti-coloured variegated in colour 221.41 partizan long-handled spear 114.9

 pavesse large convex shield 190.31, 190.35, 194.12 pavilion large stately or ornamental tent 58.21 etc. paynim pagan 19.32 etc. paynimrie pagans, the pagan world 88.23, 276.32 peak pointed extremity 105.5 pennon long narrow flag 22.11 etc. pennoncelle small pennon 4.34 perdu hidden 129.26 peremptorily confidently 227.18 peril put at risk 216.38, 226.21, 277.1 perilous clever, formidable 199.7 period point, stage 13.23 periphrastical circumlocutory 212.3 pharmacopoeia stock of drugs 277.39 physic-stuff medicine 161.18 pike spike 5.12 pilau see note to 272.8 pitch place and make fast 180.12 pleasure please 159.36, 163.25, 232.33 pledge verb toast 94.24, 257.23, 273.36 pledge noun gage, symbol of a challenge to do battle 226.7; for 77.31 and 87.18 see notes plighted pledged 9.36 pole-axe battle-axe 228.20 policy political science, political sagacity or diplomacy, cunning 57.6 etc. politic political, characterised by diplomacy, cunning, shrewd 61.14 etc. poniard dagger 4.31 etc. popinjay parrot, conceited person 62.14 port bearing, manner 66.43, 214.35 portentous prodigious 207.40 post courier 55.21 potation draught 193.14 pot-companion drinking crony 110.6 potential powerful 86.38 pottle-deep to the depth of half a gallon (2 litres) 193.14 pouncet-box small box for perfumes 79.2 power body of armed men 219.5 prelude play an introduction 240.39,

437

242.26 present immediate 146.14 etc. presently at once, immediately 42.3 etc. presentment form 51.23 press the thick 85.31; crowd 164.7 pretend claim 57.6 etc. prick ride 62.23, 249.39 pricker mounted warrior 73.20 prithee pray thee 63.30 etc. process progress 85.7 program notice displayed in public 54.25 prompt ready 58.42 etc. proof armour of established strength 143.40 proper belonging 47.18 etc.; normal 4.32; suitable, excellent 208.29 prove test 276.14 proveditore military commissioner 226.14 provost officer in charge of offenders 163.3 pshaw exclamation of impatience, contempt or disgust 122.6, 146.37, 264.10 puissance power 120.31 puissant powerful 98.18 pull noun long draught 193.10 pull verb drink deeply 239.5 (see note) punctually in every detail 217.11 purlieus outskirts 231.18 quaff drink 95.14, 109.5, 247.28, 248.20 quality rank 93.21 quickset formed of living plants 242.13 race rush 34.25; rapid ride 35.2 range move into position 237.42 rapine plunder 206.29 rashid see note to 37.38 rate value 113.5 rated scolded 43.28 raze graze 195.4, 195.25 recipe remedy 240.28 reck matter, be of importance 31.21; care 118.27, 130.43; think 244.26 reckless inconsiderate, uncaring 34.7, 191.31 recollection composure 82.4 refulgence brightness 11.23 regardless unworthy of regard 87.8 relics left-overs 104.32 relish find acceptance 199.15

438



remission pardon 171.18 rencontre hostile encounter 32.15 render translate 242.9 rent income 244.26 respite reprieve 199.31 rest for 6.32 etc. see note to 6.32 retrograde move backwards 200.29 reverence respect 40.19 etc.; bow 38.32; curtsey 185.14 Rhenish from the Rhine region 105.2 right genuine 228.27 romantic extravagant, fanciful 46.2 etc. rood cross 22.21 rote stringed instrument 259.15 (see note) rough-footed wearing shoes of undressed hide with the hair on 147.10 rude roughly made 35.30; rough 54.11; unrefined 57.3 rudely roughly, inelegantly 42.11, 70.41 sable black 46.40 etc. sacristan assistant at church ceremony 46.40 saddle-bow the arched front part of a saddle 5.10, 7.23, 21.16, 23.37 samite rich silk fabric 50.38, 51.2, 51.25 sand-glass hour-glass 122.38 santon hermit 96.24, 96.26, 191.12 Saracen for 5.42 etc. see note to 5.42 sarbacane blow-tube 196.24 scant short 86.6 scapulary short cloak 44.38 screech-owl barn owl 152.43 scurril scurrilous 186.11 ’Sdeath oath, short for God’s (Christ’s) death 75.34 secret coat of mail concealed under one’s usual dress 266.43 self-devoted giving one’s life 168.37 self-gratulation self-congratulation 112.32 seraglio harem 262.13 serjeant knight’s attendant 81.7 shadow shade, protection 19.26, 136.14, 169.12 shalm reed instrument 66.22 shame be ashamed 73.24

sheeny shiny 14.15 shiver fragment 16.38 shortly briefly 67.6; for a short time 129.8 shrift confession 143.19 sign make a sign 193.5 simoom see note to 274.38 simplicity foolishness 24.10 single-hearted straightforward, simple-hearted 31.17, 87.39 sirrah contemptuous sir 152.8, 153.39, 195.31 slashed having vertical slits to show a contrasting lining 219.42 slight thin 210.37 slightly lightly 196.43 slot track 181.15 small thin 40.5 snuff detect by smell 6.15 Soldan Sultan 18.3 etc. Soldanrie Sultanship 187.5 something somewhat 68.28 etc. soporiferous soporific 82.42 sovereign efficacious 141.5 spare lean 13.38, 255.6 specific specific remedy 148.23 speed succeed 195.21 splendour great brightness, brilliant light or lustre 4.15, 57.26, 153.29, 168.33 spruch-sprecher German (Spruchsprecher) person who utters proverbial or spontaneous words 105.9 etc. spurn kick 115.14, 207.31 squire well-born young man being trained for knighthood 6.3 etc. station stopping-place 6.13 etc. stern hinder part 75.23 still always 106.40, 110.19, 171.26 stint leave off 193.7, 205.35 stithy anvil 212.20 stock see note to 276.40 stoop lower 70.25; swoop on prey 158.30 stout brave 31.21 etc. stout-hearted brave 77.30 Stradiot for 221.36 etc. see note to 221.36 styptic substance used to stop bleeding 134.39 sudden peremptory 189.32 sum complete 146.13 sumpter-camels camels used for carrying baggage 212.43

 supplicate petition humbly for 151.33 surcoat outer garment 4.35, 4.39 suzerain feudal overlord 107.36 swain youth, man 236.13 swart black 195.22, 198.37; swarthy 253.5 sway rule, sovereign authority 102.36 sylvan wood spirit 31.16 tabouret small drum 237.43 tale total number 161.37, 163.31 tall brave, bold, valiant 74.17 tambour large drum 77.35 target light shield 81.10, 222.1 tarriance delay 117.20 tarry wait 76.15, 206.43; delay 122.3 tecbir Islamic war-cry 246.30 (see note to 246.30–33) tent probe 215.42, 263.42 therewithal with that 257.7 tiara see note to 58.41 timbrel tambourine 262.8, 268.31 title right 73.12, 87.35, 252.41 toilette manner of dressing 151.28 toils nets 180.12 Tokay see note to 105.1 tolpach see note to 71.17 tone characteristic style 42.42 tongue pin 196.36 tourney tournament 239.7 toy piece of fun 263.43 trail carry with the butt nearly touching the ground 95.5 train noun body of attendants 6.1 etc. train verb entice 130.34 etc. translated carried to heaven without death 157.16 treat negotiate 137.10 treaty see note to 137.9 trencher flat board 62.20 tributary one who pays tribute 19.22 trouveur troubadour 237.18 truncheon fragment of a lance 267.2 tuck tap 109.5 tumultuary tumultuous 223.7, 251.27 tush expression of impatience or scorn or disgust 62.6 twain two 140.23 twangingly with a ringing tone 242.16

439

two-handed wielded with both hands 254.2 tyke dog 258.7 tyne each of the pointed branches of a deer’s antler 223.1 unequally unfairly, unjustly 26.20 unsearchable impenetrable 218.14 urge press on the attention 32.42 etc. urgent pressing 270.7 vacancy empty space 4.26 vail doff 219.12; stoop 242.4 van foremost position 178.28 varlet attendant 22.10, 170.31, 217.22 vassal feudal subordinate 81.38 etc. venerie hunting 75.18 venture risk entrusting 143.37, 143.39; for 214.5 see note verge sink 31.11 versatility fickleness, inconstancy 91.2 vert see note to 73.31 very true 214.32 vespers (the time of) evening service 73.42 vial small glass bottle 209.23 viands provisions 201.22 virtue power 76.34 etc. wage hazard 87.29 wake festival, revel 95.15 warder baton 243.23 (see note) warding guard 149.42 wash liquid cosmetic 225.23 waste lay waste 19.15; destroy 87.30; impair 94.1; consume 110.1 weal well-being 48.26 etc. weapon-show military muster or review 187.29 weed article of clothing 241.40, 241.46, 243.17 wend make one’s way 8.37, 78.42, 174.42 wherefore why 8.21 etc. wicket small door 42.13, 42.23 wile bring by deception 128.10 wimple veil 244.11 wind blow 135.7, 140.14, 189.40 wine-skin tippler 110.17 withal preposition with 192.15 withal adverb as well 104.18 withdrawn drawn 253.26 without outside 53.17 etc. woodcock simpleton 229.7 worshipful honourable 90.21

440



wot know 86.18, 99.39, 129.29 wrest tuning-key 237.7 writhed twisted 250.32 writhen twisted, contorted 136.30, 191.26 wroth angry 274.28

wrought worked, moved convulsively 215.5 zecchin Venetian or Turkish gold coin 235.23 zenana harem 138.9