A sudden cry, "Holy Cross to the rescue!" and a gallant band of light hors.e.m.e.n charged the Infidels in the rear.

The a.s.sailants became the a.s.sailed, and fled in all directions.

"Rise up, sir knight--for knight you should be," said a stern manly voice; and a warrior of n.o.ble mien, whose features were yet hidden behind his visor, raised the youthful hero from the ground.

CHAPTER XXVI. "QUANTUM MUTATUS AB ILLO HECTORE."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have I not?"

"That is then my home."

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

And here he suppressed what might have been a sigh.

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

"And thou blushest not to own it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I fear me thou art hurt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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