Spears of destiny

CHAPTER VIII

SPEARS OF DESTINY

In Rouen for the first time the comrades saw signs of the Crusade which was being preached throughout Europe. As they rode past the Cathedral on their way to the town gates, several hungry-eyed friars rushed at them, brandishing crosses and demanding that they take the pledge of service.

"Gladly would I do so, reverend sirs," answered Hugh courteously, "but I am under a vow to complete a certain task, which taketh me to Outremer, and peradventure to the Holy Land. If so it falls out, I shall endeavour to do my devoir as becomes a servant of Christ."

One of the friars turned away, but the elder raised his right hand in a threatening gesture, dangling the cross aloft.

"Beware and ye set the affairs of this life before those of the life everlasting," he cried. "Small good will attend the efforts of those who put off the service of Christ for the satisfaction of their own ends. Think well, sir squire, if you can afford to risk failure on earth and after death. The Cross comes first."

"A pest on you, sir friar," exclaimed Matteo cheerfully. "Why must you nag on strangers, when I'll warrant there are a-many of your townsfolk here are not coming forward? Be off with you."

He tossed the man a coin, which the friar pouched with ludicrous haste.

"Little fear those alms will be applied to pilgrims' wants," continued Matteo. "These preaching fellows are a veritable nuisance. Yon knave saw that you liked not to be singled out in public, and would have pursued you in hopes of a larger gift."

"Are they so venal?" asked Hugh in amazement.

"Some. They are not all such hypocrites. A Crusade is a strange business, like the men who throng its ranks and lead its fortunes, a mingling of good aims and wickedness. No longer will people go forth because they feel that they must. Nowadays the Holy Apostle of Rome must promise them all manner of indulgences, absolutions, remissions of sins and rewards, spiritual and temporal."

"We hear little of this Crusade in England," remarked Hugh thoughtfully, as they passed out of the gate and took the road to the east.

"Ay, like enough. Had Lion-Heart lived 'twould have been otherwise, I trow. But King John is just come to peace with King Philip of France, after all these years of wars, and he is in no mind to begin another quarrel. Nor is King Philip, for that matter. The German Emperor is at swords' points with Rome, so that none but the chief vassals of France and Flanders, Lorraine, Burgundy, Provence and Lombardy are left to perform the task which falls rightly to the share of their lords."

"But such a Crusade, wanting some great Prince to lead it, must surely fail," objected Hugh.

"Mayhap," returned Matteo. "But 'twill not fail for lack of trained men-at-arms. The ceasing of the wars in Normandy, Aquitaine and Poitou hath left thousands of the brethren without a profession. They will be blithe to take service in a new cause, which promiseth booty and assortment of their multitudes of sins."

"I would I might see somewhat of their venture," mused Hugh. "Hast made me long for a charge at Saladin's chivalry with all your wild tales."

"Who knows? Our quest may lead us thither," replied Matteo. "What say you, Ralph, who ride so primly wordless?"

"Marry, Messer Matteo, I am that happy to feel solid earth beneath my feet I cannot give thought to anything but the goodness of all about me," answered Ralph, grinning broadly. "'Tis a fair land, this France, more like unto our England than I had supposed. But I cannot see that it is larger, as you told me."

"Didst think to measure it all at a glance?" retorted Matteo. "But I spoke of whither our quest might lead us. Art ready to venture the sea again that we may reach Paynimry?"

"Ay, if must be," Ralph sighed dolefully. "But I slew Paynims enough in the sea-fight to satisfy me a while, an it please you, lords."

Hugh and Matteo laughed at this naïve admission, and so the comrades jogged along their road. They crossed the frontier of the Duchy without difficulty, and passed into the beautiful country of the Isle of France. That night they lay at the castle of a lord who welcomed them eagerly as strangers from a far land. Hugh was received for his name's sake; Matteo won loud applause from knight and lady, squire and men-at-arms, by his chants and romaunts. The best the castle had was theirs, and they resumed their journey the next morning mightily refreshed.

Spring was in the air. The trees were leafing; birds sang by the wayside; in the depths of the forests sometimes they could catch the far-off note of hunting-horns; fine lords and gay ladies, sober burgesses, portly priests and prelates, parties on pilgrimages, passed them by, with all the pomp and pageantry of life. Once a small clump of spears showed on the skyline and galloped swiftly toward them, but when the men-at-arms, hardy, whiskered Free Companions, viewed the comrades at close quarters, they circled and drew off. Little booty and hard blows were not to the liking of such gentry.

Day by day they travelled, and each day seemed more eventful, more diverse in its surprises, than its predecessor. By Beaumont, in the Isle of France, they rode more than thirty leagues to Soissons on the marches of Champagne. Several times they overtook troops of men on horseback and afoot, bound southward into Italy to embark for the Crusade. Hugh looked longingly at the crosses proudly borne on the Crusaders' breasts.

From Soissons they made a long day's journey to Reims. Here they turned southward, and rode by Epernay to Sezanne. Beyond Sezanne the road to Troyes led through a vast forest, wild and tenantless, save for the occasional smokes of charcoal-burners. When they halted at midday the forest still stretched before them, seemingly endless and without sign of human habitation. They were obliged to satisfy their hunger with such food as Ralph had brought in a wallet on the packhorse.

"A fit setting for a romaunt," said Hugh, as they mounted again.

"I like it not," answered Matteo, shuddering. "My body craves the sun. Here, where the trees tower so high and arch overhead, it is all shadow, all evil. I like it not."

"Y'are unwonted dolorous, comrade," smiled Hugh.

"Ay, and of a mood to take precautions," Matteo assented, drawing the mail hood about his ears.

"Why, dost fear——"

"In these forest ways foes may come secretly upon us."

"What foes?"

"It matters not who they may be," returned the jongleur. "We wear two suits of armour that would be worth a score of forest varlets' lives. That is sufficient temptation."

Hugh sobered.

"Art in the right," he said.

And he donned the casque of plate that hung at his saddle-bow. Gradually, too, he became possessed by the same spirit of melancholy that oppressed Matteo. Of the three only Ralph rode cheerful and happy, a lusty whistle on his lips. But the hours passed and nothing happened. 'Twas late afternoon when Matteo reined in abruptly and laid his hand on Hugh's arm.

"Dost hear?" he asked.

"What?"

"Yes, there it is again!"

"What?" repeated Hugh. "In this helm I hear naught a few feet distant."

Matteo beckoned Ralph to them.

"Hark," he said. "Give ear ahead, Ralph. Dost hear aught else than the whispering of leaves?"

Ralph inclined his head.

"Ay, that do I!" he exclaimed. "Shouts and it may be the clang of steel."

"I thought so," cried the jongleur triumphantly. "Come, Hugh, there is mischief under way along the road."

A great joy sprang up in their hearts as they spurred eagerly forward betwixt thick walls of greenery, the thudding of the horses' hoofs deadening all other sounds.

"Hast banished gloom?" shouted Hugh above the thunder of the hoofs.

Matteo flung his spear in air and caught it again.

"I shall burn a candle to Our Lady of Tortosa for this," he answered. "My bones have been aching for a fight—and I care not for odds. The greater——"

The road curled around a projecting bank, and without warning they burst from the wood onto the edge of a cleared space, where another road crossed the one by which they were travelling. Midway of this space in front of a wayside shrine, a group of ragged knaves swirled about a knot of serving men, who fell rapidly before the clubs and long knives of the attackers. Beside the shrine a second group of robbers guarded a man and woman on horseback.

"Forest runners," said Matteo.

"St. James, but we are in luck!" exulted Hugh. "There are more than a score of the rogues. Ralph, do you stand by to cover our charge. We shall surprise them right merrily."

Ralph dismounted, nimbly notched his string and knocked an arrow.

"Spears?" questioned Matteo.

"No," Hugh decided. "No knightly weapons for such enemies. The sword shall be their portion."

They drew their blades and charged. The outlaws set up a shrill screaming, and scattered loosely. But they were no cowards, those forest ruffians. Light-footed and agile, they ran to meet the mailed horsemen, trying to leap up behind and stab under the folds of the hauberk or to hock the horses in passing. But Hugh and Matteo were ready for them, and Ralph, from the forest edge, sent his deadly arrows hissing through the air whenever one of the comrades was in danger.

Back and forth swayed the fight, the grey stallion and Matteo's Arab bearing their full share of the conflict with pawing hoofs and champing jaws. Hugh fought as he had been taught, thrusting ahead by main strength, cutting down whoever stepped in his path. Matteo fought after the Saracen fashion, manoeuvring his horse to right or left, avoiding blows and seeking to deal them where they were least expected.

The comrades hacked a bloody path in the outlaws' ranks, but try as they might, they could not win to the prisoners. The most they could achieve was to drive the enemy steadily before them until the two hostile groups were united by the shrine. Then Hugh called a halt.

"Curse this helm!" he cried. "I cannot see for it! Prithee, Matteo, help me unbuckle it. 'Twas not intended for such a bicker."

When it was off he sat bare-headed, inhaling the fragrant forest air and studying the situation which confronted them. Half-a-dozen outlaws lay with the dead servants of the two prisoners, around whom clustered the remnant of the band. Whilst Hugh looked, the woman waved her hand to him and smiled. She was clad in a close-fitting green habit that emphasised the flowing lines of her tall figure. Her face Hugh saw vaguely to be very beautiful. The man was huddled in his saddle, apparently cowed by the savagery of his captors. His rich dress, no less than hers, bespoke their exalted degree.

"Best not charge the knaves, Hugh," urged Matteo. "Stir their anger and make them break toward us. So we may ride them down easier."

"Good counsel," Hugh approved. "What ho, varlets!" he hailed the outlaws. "Hast had enough?"

They snarled, and formed their ranks closer. Hugh laughed.

"Prick them up, Ralph," he ordered.

The longbow twanged, and clothyard shafts flew over the grass like angry hornets; but each buzz ended in a shriek of agony, as the arrows drove through leather jerkin and flesh. A hoarse voice rasped from the unkempt ranks.

"Enough, lords! Have mercy on your poor slaves! Do not slay us!"

"What is this?" demanded Hugh, surprised. "Do you yield to our mercy?"

A frowsy fellow, armed like his mates with a knotted club and a knife, stood forth from the group and flung himself on his knees.

"We ask only that you let us go free, lords," he pleaded. "Do not send us back to the seigneur to be branded and whipped. We will die first!"

"What mean you?"

Hugh rode forward to the man's side, moved to pity.

"We are masterless men, lord. We have no homes, no food or cattle. We were hungry. But we meant no harm."

"The corpses of those you slew prove that," agreed Hugh grimly. "Think of a better reason for mercy."

The man crawled closer.

"There are those who love us, lord," he cried. "We are men, even if we are serfs. We love those who love us and look to us for care. We seek to satisfy their wants. Yet we are satisfied with a mud hut, where you have a castle. We wear only coarse clothes, where you wear camlet and cendal. We do not ask for fowls and fair white bread, with rich wines; but we must have some meat to keep us from starving. Our lot is hard, lord. We do but try to find that which will keep our loved ones alive. Spare us for them!"

"You speak like a clerk, fellow!" exclaimed Hugh. "'Twas well-argued. What think you, Matteo? Shall——"

"Look behind you!" shrieked the woman prisoner from the outlaw ranks.

Hugh turned to see a party of the forest rogues creeping from the protection of a thicket in their rear. At the same moment the fellow at his feet leaped up and swung knife and club at his throat. But Beosund, the grey stallion, saved his master's life. The brave horse reared high on his hindlegs so that the blows only numbed Hugh's arm, curvetted in a demi-volte and galloped clear of the trap after Matteo.

No outlaw dared to press the pursuit in face of Ralph's bow.

"How now," panted Hugh angrily, as they reined in at the forest edge. "Are we to be balked by such rascals?"

"Not so, an you follow my counsel," replied Matteo. "Let us do this wise. Ralph, do you shoot fast as you may, aiming all your shafts at one point in their ranks. So you shall make a gap, and into this we will gallop, and if Our Lady aids us, perchance seize the prisoners and lead them to safety. Are you agreed?"

"Ay, 'tis a good plan."

"In God's name, then, let us charge!"

The grey stallion and the Arab thundered forward again, and the forest runners, despite their terrible punishment, met the attack like wolves too hungry to know fear. They bit at the steel that slew them, twisting their taloned-hands in the horses' manes in desperate efforts to drag their enemies down. The comrades hewed until their arms were weary, but always there seemed to be more of the outlaws eager to die. It was Ralph's shooting that turned the tide. He ran hither and yon, speeding his shafts where they would do the most good, and the certain death they carried was more fearsome than the thirsty swords.

Hugh thought the fight would never end. A dying outlaw clinging to his stirrup, a second man hacking at his back for a weak spot in the mail, he found himself facing a third enemy who belaboured his unshielded side with a huge club. Matteo was busied with other adversaries. Hugh had to save himself, for so closely was he engaged that Ralph did not dare to shoot.

But Hugh rallied to the emergency with all his remaining strength, kicked free of the clutching hands on his stirrup, smashed in the face of the man behind him with the pommel of his sword, and by a back-hand blow slashed the club from the hands of the third varlet. The fellow dodged and ran. Hugh spurred on in a bloodshot mist, until a white hand was laid upon his rein.

"You have won, sir knight," said a deep voice that thrummed like harp-strings. "They have fled."

Slowly the mist was dissipated, and Hugh looked into a pair of splendid black eyes, eyes of midnight darkness, exquisitely lashed, gems in a face of haughty loveliness under a coronet of raven hair. Heavy-lidded and languorous, they aroused in him a faint uneasiness, fear of he knew not what.

"Fled?" he heard himself croak.

"They fled from your swords," answered the wonderful voice.

Hugh rubbed his eyes with the back of a mailed glove and looked about him. Matteo was riding towards them, escorting the lady's companion. Ralph was leading the pack-horse across the clearing as unconcerned as if their journey had not been interrupted, stopping now and then to retrieve his arrows from the bodies that littered the ground in front of the shrine. Of living outlaws there was not a trace. The survivors of the band had melted into the forest.

"From our swords?" repeated Hugh. "Yet——" he broke off and called to Matteo—"what make you of our victory?"

"'Twas a good fight, Hugh, and we won; but there ride certain allies who contributed in some measure, or I guess wrongly."

He pointed up the cross-road. The westering sun shone full upon a great foison of spears, pennoned and unpennoned, that blocked it like a moving hedge.

"Who are they?" asked Hugh in bewilderment.

Matteo shrugged his shoulders.

"I know not. Spears of destiny, mayhap. In sooth, a mighty company."

CHAPTER IX

THE COMRADES TAKE THE CROSS

"Kyrie Eleison!" wailed the man Matteo had rescued. "We are delivered from one set of thieves to fall into the clutches of another band more numerous."

Hugh eyed him with some amusement, noting, too, the flush that stained the dusky cheeks of the girl in the green habit. He was a well-made man, plump, with the air of a personage used to good service and soft beds. His coat of rich eastern cloth was trimmed with beaver. His face was handsome, even scholarly, but marred by a certain petulant arrogance.

"Your fears are reasonless, father," said the girl sharply. "And rather than bemoan our fate, we should thank these gallant knights for their aid. But for them we should be on our way to the lair of the outlaws."

"Indeed, lady, you make much of what is of no moment," remonstrated Hugh. "And we are not knights, but plain squires."

"You fight like paladins, Messers," she returned with a flash of eyes and teeth.

"My daughter saith truth," approved the man. "Squires you may be, but knights you will become, an you perform many such deeds of arms. I would it were in my power to recompense you as befits your prowess and my degree, but I am an exile from my home, fair sirs, and my means are limited. In so far as I may, I am at your command."

"There is no thought of debt," answered Hugh. "But I would I knew who these men-at-arms may be. What think you, Matteo?"

"We shall learn anon," said the jongleur sententiously. "See!"

The forest of spears had halted in the entrance to the clearing, and two men rode forward from the serried ranks. One wore the habiliments of a priest, and his mount was a quick-footed mule. His dress was mean, but the grim face that peered out from the wide cowl challenged instant attention. Gaunt to the verge of emaciation and seared with deep-riven lines, its mobile lips firm-shut, the outstanding feature was the eyes that blazed with almost maniacal brilliance in their hollow sockets.

The other rider was far different in aspect. He bestrode a broad-flanked war-horse, and was sheathed in mail of proof. A blood-red cross barred the left breast of his surcoat. All his appointments were those of a warrior. He was of a middle-height, apparently about forty years old, and his head, under its cap of state, was large and finely shaped. He had a jutting beaked nose and brown eyes that might look merry, but were now hard and stern. Hugh knew this man for a leader, accustomed to command and to be obeyed.

But it was the priest who spoke first.

"What means this slaughter?" he cried threateningly, as he picked his way amongst the bodies that cluttered the grass of the crossroads. "Know ye not that knight-errantry is forbid? The Holy Apostle of Rome hath banned all such who shed the blood of fellow-Christians rather than go to slay the Infidels. Speak ere I curse you, and your souls are condemned to Hell!"

"Curse, and 'tis to your liking, holy friar," returned Matteo, who had been more directly addressed. "I never yet knew that the Church countenanced robbery and murder."

The priest glared at him, and Hugh hastened to intervene.

"This hath been no fight of our choosing, fair sirs," he said. "In passing this spot we found this lord and his lady daughter in the power of a band of forest runners, who were murdering their servants. We charged the varlets for the sake of kindliness, and were like to have been killed ourselves, for they were exceeding desperate."

"Why, that is a reasonable tale," spoke up the knight who rode by the friar.

The priest scowled.

"This man is a jongleur," he said, pointing accusingly to Matteo's gittern, which was fastened to the back of his saddle.

"That is so," assented Matteo. "'Tis no crime in the Holy Land whence I come, sir friar."

"Hast been in Outremer?" enquired the knight eagerly.

"Even so, lord."

The priest scowled fiercer still.

"Y'are no respecter of God's servants, 'twould seem," he snapped. "Why left you the Holy Land? What better place to live than the scene of Our Saviour's passion?"

"As to that, sir friar," answered Matteo coolly, "I came even to see how it was the Christians of the West were so long in mustering to the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre."

The priest gnashed his teeth.

"Ay, 'tis true," he cried, "and even this jongleur, this panderer to the sinfulness of man, this singer of lewd songs and love rhymes—even he taunteth us with our wickedness, for that we have forgotten Our Lord who died for us! Woe, woe unto all ye who turn not into the narrow path! Woe, I say, unto ye, all ye who do not abandon the work of the world for the work of God! The sinful have taunted us, and we may not answer! So far have we strayed from the way our feet were set upon!"

He tossed his arms wildly overhead and rode on alone, heedless of the rest of the company.

"A pleasant fellow," quoth Matteo. "He liked not the manner of my face, I take it."

The knight laughed.

"'Tis Messer Fulke of Neuilly. He is the preacher of the Crusade by the Holy Apostle's own writ. He is like unto the Sainted Peter the Hermit, who preached the First Crusade to our fathers. A most pious man, Messers, but certes, one not over-comfortable to live with. I am glad he hath passed on before. I had wished myself a Paynim an I had been afflicted much longer with his company."

He hesitated and regarded them enquiringly, his gaze sweeping from Hugh and Matteo to the strange lord and his daughter, who had sat quietly throughout the conversation.

"I, lords," he said courteously, bowing to the lady, "am the Lord Geoffrey de Villehardouin, Marshal of Champagne, and I ride with the knights and men-at-arms of my master, the Count of Champagne, to join the Crusade which sails from Venice after Easter. Prithee, can I be of service to you?"

"Lord Marshal," replied the strange lord pompously, "I am one unknown to you, although perchance you have heard of my ill fate. I am the Cæsar Michael Comnenus, an exile from Constantinople, and this is my daughter the Lady Helena. We are riding from Germany into Italy to seek news of our affairs. Of these brave squires I know not even their names, but I can vouch for their gallantry. It had gone hard with us had they not ridden to our rescue."

"Certes, I have heard of the troubles of the Cæsar Michael Comnenus," answered the Marshal of Champagne. "Yours is a sad story, lord, and one all too common in these days in Byzantium, if the tales we hear are true. I pray you, sir, do you and your daughter ride with us south into Italy. So you shall be guarded against other mishaps. And now, young sirs, may I have the pleasure of knowing you?"

"I am Hugh, lord of Chesby in England," returned Hugh. "I ride on a quest to Outremer. This is Messer Matteo of Antioch, my friend and comrade, who journeys with me."

"Chesby!" exclaimed the Marshal.

Even the Cæsar and his daughter leaned forward in their saddles at the name.

"You are of the blood of Sir James?" asked Villehardouin.

"I am his son. I go to seek him."

"To seek him? But, lordling, he is——"

"He lives," interrupted Hugh coldly.

"Lives?" protested the Greek. "Sir James de Chesby lives? Where heard you that, Messer Englishman?"

"It matters not, fair sir. I know."

The Lady Helena interposed.

"Is it not right and just that a son should seek news of a father who hath been lost to him?" she said softly. "A brave quest, Lord Hugh. May the Immaculate One walk beside you."

For an instant the long lashes lifted and her eyes beamed into his. Then they were decorously veiled. Hugh's heart thumped faster, and he pressed one hand against his hauberk where a hunting-glove nestled beneath the mail.

"You are very kind, lady," he muttered.

But the Cæsar was not so readily satisfied. A weak man, he was unconscionably stubborn.

"It is because I admire the courage and chivalry of the young English lord that I would convince him of the uselessness of his search," he persisted. "Sir James—the Panagia rest his soul!—is dead these many years. Turn your arms to the task of the Crusade, Lord Hugh. There you shall win honours to match your merit."

Hugh listened gravely. The man was his senior in age and of exalted rank.

"I will consider your counsel, lord," he answered, and turned away.

Despite Hugh's reserve, Comnenus would have said more. But Villehardouin picked up his reins.

"Your pardon, lords," he apologised, "but it is a long ride yet to Troyes. We must be on our way. An you do me the honour, I would fain have your company. I must hear more of this quest of yours, Lord Hugh."

He raised in his stirrups and flung a bellow of command behind him. The forest of lances stirred into motion and flowed after them.

As the column proceeded, other knights rode forward and joined the group attending the Marshal. These new-comers gathered thickest about the Lady Helena, and Hugh found occasion for a word in private with Matteo.

"Hast any key to these Greeks?" he questioned.

Matteo's brows were furrowed by a puzzled frown.

"Only this: they are of the Comnenoi, an Imperial house, and they were forced into exile after the death of Andronicus, your father's friend, last of that line to sit on the throne of Byzantium. He was assassinated by one of the Angeloi, and 'tis the brother of that Angelos, you will remember, who rules now in Constantinople. This pair are on some errand of intrigue."

"But why is this man so sure of my father's death?"

"Would that I knew, comrade! Why are all those with the taint of the Greek Court so sure of it?"

"Ay, that is true," Hugh admitted sombrely. "Yet these two are exiles. What interest can they have?"

"They are Greeks—and they hope some time to rule in Constantinople. There are two causes for any lie."

"'Tis passing strange," Hugh conceded, "but mayhap I suffer from the canker of suspicion. I will strive to banish it. I must not suspect every stranger from Outremer of being an enemy to me."

"Banish it not, Hugh," advised Matteo earnestly. "Be ever on your guard. Certes, it was more than strange our meeting here in France with these two from Constantinople. Be on your guard against all Greeks. A slippery, treacherous race!"

Before Hugh could answer the Marshal rode to his side.

"That was a pretty bicker you fought by the crossroads," Villehardouin said warmly. "These forest varlets are no mean foes. Where got you those huge arrows I marked sticking in some of the rogues?"

"My follower here shot them from his long-bow," explained Hugh. "Ralph, do you show how 'tis done."

The Marshal cried out in wonder at the great yew bow, a man's-length tall.

"Never have I seen such a weapon," he exclaimed. "Certes, it must be stronger than a cross-bow. Is it common in England?"

"Not so, Lord Marshal," returned Hugh, while Ralph grinned sheepishly, proud to have his pet noticed by the French knight. "Ralph's father served in the wars on the Welsh March. The Welsh are a mountain people, very nimble and swift of foot, and they make bows somewhat like this, but not so big. Ralph's father took the Welsh bow and made it longer and stouter, until he had this."

The Frenchman shook his head as he tried to draw the strung bow to his shoulder.

"Never saw I the like," he repeated. "Arm a peasantry with it, and they would be invincible."

"Mayhap some day we shall," said Hugh lightly.

"I would we had some companies of your archers for service against the Paynims," replied the Marshal. "Our ranks are none too full, Messers."

"How is that?"

"One accident or another—and all the Kings stand aside. But we are not cast down, and 'tis a sturdy host will sail for Babylon. The Venetians are lending us a fleet of war-galleys, and the picked men-at-arms of Flanders, Champagne, Burgundy, Germany, Tuscany, Lombardy and the Southern marches are riding in our train. What we lack most are funds and in sooth, Messers, the Holy Apostle and his Cardinals are not so generous as they might be with the pittances they have collected from the stay-at-homes."

"I would we might ride with you," said Hugh.

"And why not?" Villehardouin proposed. "Every strong arm counts, and you, Messer Matteo, would be invaluable to us, with your knowledge of Outremer and the Saracens. Come, now, Messers. Consider the opportunity. I do not boast when I say that you would ride in good company."

"Ah, Lord Marshal," said Hugh sadly, "but you forget my quest. I may not depart from that."

"Your quest takes you to Outremer. We voyage thither, too."

"But I must go first to Constantinople."

"Ah, so!" Villehardouin considered. "I would not have on my soul the breaking of any man's vow. Yet I pray you, fair sirs, think well of what I have said. It may be that we can compound the matter, so that Messer Hugh will do no violence to his conscience. You, Messer Matteo, will not part from your friend?"

"Where he rides, there I ride also," returned Matteo steadily.

"Well spoken!" applauded the Marshal. "By St. Remigius of Reims, y'are a staunch pair, and I would I might have you by me! At the least, ride with us into Italy. If you would journey to Constantinople, you must take ship from Venice for Genoa, and it may be I can assist you in some sort, for the Doge Dandolo is friendly to me."

With the keen tact that characterised him, Villehardouin dropped the subject there; but he talked on tirelessly, for he was a man insatiable in his pursuit of knowledge. He asked Matteo concerning the Saracens and their mode of warfare, and he was equally curious regarding Hugh's training in England.

"An you have been well-exercised in arms, y'are no worse off for delay in taking the field," he asserted. "Many a boy is thrown and crippled in his first tourney for lack of strength to stand the blows."

But what caused him to marvel most was the fact that Hugh had been taught to read and write.

"What," he cried, "you can write fair script like the holy fathers? 'Tis wellnigh beyond belief, lordling. And you read? Latin, too, say you? St. Remigius aid me! Ah, I would I had the art. All my life have I longed for it, but the toil of arms and my seigneury have left me no opportunity—or perchance furnished my idleness an excuse. But in my embassages and visits to courts and parliaments of barons, how great an aid would it have been to me had I been able to set down that which happened in writing that it might never have been lost. Ah, God, fair sirs, this is a matter very close to my heart!"

"If I can be of service to you on the journey. Lord Marshal, I shall count it an honour," proffered Hugh.

"That is right courteously said," Villehardouin responded with boyish alacrity. "Doubt not I shall make use of you, with your permission. I like not to use the monkish scribes. They are too foreign in their understanding. An you will bear with me, I shall have much for your hand to write."

The pleasant company and the ceaseless clatter of thousands of hoofs at their heels made the ride into Troyes seem very short; but it was dusk when they entered the gates and passed up the main street, torch and cresset glaring on hauberk and byrnie, shield and lance-point, sword and battle-axe. From the marketplace came the clamour of a crowd hysterically excited.

"Messer Fulke has aroused the good people again," commented Villehardouin, with the cynicism of the great noble, to whom the Crusade, first and last, was mainly an opportunity for adventure in a good cause. "Lord Hugh, Messer Matteo, I shall meet you anon."

He turned into an inn courtyard, leaving the comrades in the street.

"Shall we seek quarters?" asked Matteo.

"Ay," said Hugh, "but first I would see this mad priest, an you favour it. Ralph can find us an inn."

"Oh, if you will," agreed Matteo resignedly. "Belike he will curse me in earnest this time."

A myriad torches illuminated the crowd that surged and swayed from wall to wall across the market-place. In the centre, upon a heap of faggots, stood the lean figure of the preacher, a crucifix in one hand. He shook the holy emblem at his listeners as if it was a weapon, and whenever he raised it in anger the people groaned and whined like beaten dogs. Those nearest to him continually snatched at his garments, content if they could kiss a fold of his robe or the sandals on his feet. It was to these that Messer Fulke addressed himself, as the comrades slowly forced their way through the throng.

"Ah, what fools ye be!" he shouted in his deep, ringing voice. "You seek virtue in my garments, say you? Well, I will not guarantee that you shall find what you seek there. But this I will warrant you: Behold!"

He leaned down and plucked at the cloak of a man in the front rank of those around him.

"On this I make the sign of the Cross—and it hath a virtue which shall assoil all sins."

He caught the cloak from its owner and tore it into strips, talking as he worked. From the strips he fashioned rude crosses, and the thousands in the square fought to claim one.

"Here I can assure you the peace of Heaven and forgiveness of sins," he proclaimed, as he cast the crosses to all within reach. "By the virtue they possess, if ye make good the obligation they carry with them, your sins shall be assoiled. But think not to lay aside the burden once assumed. There is a mighty task awaiting you, and Christ calls upon you to begin. Rich and poor, old and young, merchant and seigneur, serf and villein, all of ye hear Christ's call. Go forth in his service, and ye shall win everlasting life."

The crowd were in a frenzy, moaning and weeping and beating their breasts, calling upon saints, praying in the gutters.

"Show us a miracle, Messer Fulke," cried an hysterical voice from the fringes of the throng.

The appeal was taken up and tossed about, until a chorus of voices were demanding it.

"Show us a miracle, Messer Fulke! A miracle such as you showed the people of Paris! Give us a miracle!"

The priest raised his gaunt arms in a magnificent gesture of command. Instantly the crowd sobered into silence.

"A miracle ye call for!" he said slowly, his words falling distinct as the tolling of a bell. "Oh, ye foolish ones, ye of little faith! A miracle ye must have in order that ye shall believe!"

His tones became scornful.

"When did Fulke of Neuilly ever claim to be a worker of miracles? But I will show you that which is all but a miracle, an ye ask for it. I will show ye the haughty and highly-placed brought to serve God's purpose against their will. Look carefully, oh, people!"

There was a deadly hush, and Fulke leaned forward from his heap of faggots.

"Ride near, sir knights," he called to Hugh and Matteo. "Ay, to my feet, an it please you."

By magic a lane opened before their horses, there was a pressure of bodies from the rear, and the comrades found themselves immediately under the preacher's stand.

"I thought I knew ye, slayers of outlaws, players of light music, doers of errant deeds," he exclaimed sarcastically. "Here I give you a chance to redeem your souls from the burden of sin that rests upon them."

And before they could protest, he took strips from the citizen's cloak and pinned crosses to their surcoats.

"There is a miracle for you," he shouted to the crowd, and a din of rejoicing arose from the packed ranks.

The people pressed closer, not only kissing Fulke's clothing, but striving to snatch bits of the comrades' surcoats, in which they fancied some sure virtue to have been embodied. Hugh and Matteo were forced to fight their way out of the throng. It was impossible for them to protest against the priest's act. Had they done so they would have been torn to pieces. As it was, they did not feel safe until they were swallowed in the shadows of a side-street.

"Do you believe in God?" asked Hugh, as he fingered the coarse cloth of the cross that sprawled across his breast.

"Sometimes," answered Matteo quietly. "And sometimes I believe in the Fate of which the Saracens teach."

"Which brought this about?"

"God knows," said the jongleur.

And involuntarily he crossed himself.

CHAPTER X

HOW HUGH WAS TESTED

As the comrades were mounting their horses the next morning, there was a commotion at the inn gate and Fulke of Neuilly entered the courtyard. He waved back the crowd of curious folk who always followed at his heels and strode across to Hugh's side.

He looked, if possible, more gaunt than he had the night before. His eyes burned like coals. Twin patches of vivid scarlet capped his cheekbones. But there was a restraint in his manner which had been lacking when he harangued the crowd in the marketplace.

"It has come to my ears that I did ye twain an injustice," he began curtly. "Fair sirs, none is more humble than I in acknowledging a wrong done. I cry your pardon. But I would have ye believe that I have found so much of wickedness and evil broadcast in the land that it is become hard to see that any goodness may prevail—more particularly among the young and hot-blooded."

Hugh regarded him in bewilderment, but Matteo answered as curtly as he had spoken.

"Of a truth, Messer Fulke, there are few of your cloth would own to a fault. Prithee, what has turned your heart toward us?"

The preacher surveyed the jongleur steadily for a long moment.

"Doth anti-Christ reign in your soul?" he demanded abruptly.

Matteo raised his eyes.

"No more than in yours, Messer Priest. But I have seen more than I care to remember of clerkly hypocrisy, and I cannot abide smugness in place of virtue."

Fulke heard him out quietly.

"That is true, Sir Jongleur," he admitted. "There are a-many of God's servants in this land unworthy of their livery, and it may be such are to be found otherwhere. I have laboured to point out all who came in my way. Hell hath hotter fires for them than for the laity. But I came not hither to argue with ye, fair sirs. I mocked ye for idlers and made use of my power over the people in the market-place to compel ye to a purpose ye did not intend. Thereby I did wrong. You, Messer Englishman, go upon a good quest, and this jongleur, your companion, doth as well as he may in that he aids you. The crosses I put upon ye are meaningless, but I would have ye not forget them."

His eyes flared with a sudden lustre.

"Ay," he continued tensely, "forget them not, for I say to ye, that though ye be not vowed for the Crusade, yet shall your fate be cast with that of the host."

Hugh gasped.

"How know ye this?" he cried.

"I cannot say," answered Messer Fulke, his eyes strangely dulled. "But tongues speak in me over which I have no control. Think well of my words, fair sirs."

He raised his hand in a gesture of blessing, and turned to leave the courtyard. But presently, whilst they watched him, dumbfounded, he retraced his steps.

"Messer Jongleur," he said to Matteo with sad wistfulness, "hast seen the Holy Sepulchre?"

Matteo nodded, too surprised to speak.

"With thine own eyes?"

"Yes."

Fulke sighed.

"Ah, lucky youth! That precious sight upon which mine eyes may never dwell!"

"Surely, you go with the host, Messer Fulke?" asked Hugh kindly.

The priest shook his head.

"I go upon my Father's business," he said. "My path lies otherwhere. God keep you, fair sirs."

Before they could question him further, his quick, nervous stride had carried him into the midst of the crowd at the inn gateway, whose ranks closed around him in a tempest of adulation.

"In sooth, this Fulke is a great priest," said Hugh, as they rode slowly after him to join the column of Crusaders.

"And a sick man," added Matteo thoughtfully.

"Sick?"

"Yes, his days are numbered, or I have never seen the sickness of the lungs. Also, Hugh, he knoweth it."

Matteo spoke no more than the truth. Messer Fulke was too ill to journey on with the host that day. He tarried for a while at Troyes, rallying his strength, and then rode forth to castigate certain dilatory persons who had taken the Cross, and in the heat of his labour perished as he had foreseen, unable to witness the fruit of his own mighty efforts.

The knights and leaders of the host were not sorry to miss Fulke. They had a strong contingent of churchmen for the necessary masses and other holy services, jolly, live-at-your-ease clerks, who kept sermons for sermon time; and the hard-fighting men-at-arms preferred the counsels of such to the relentless, austere piety of the priest of Neuilly, who was swift to seize every opportunity for admonition and who spared none from prince to varlet.

The host was like a snowball that starts an avalanche. Every league that the column traversed brought some addition to it. Perhaps it was the following of a petty baron; perhaps a single adventurer, armoured knight or leather-coated burgher; perhaps the imposing array of a province or town. From day to day the numbers grew, and long before they had traversed Burgundy and reached the pass over Mont Cenis they had attained the proportions of an army.

Geoffrey the Marshal made much of Hugh and Matteo, and they rode with the great lords and barons. Knights famous throughout Europe companioned them—Manasses de l'Lisle, Macaire de Sainte-Menehould, Miles le Brabant, Reginald de Dampierre, Geoffrey de Joinville, Payen d'Orleans, Peter de Bracieux, Matthew de Montmorency, Conon de Béthune, James d'Avesnes, Anseau de Cayeaux and many more, noted for skill in tourney and the field. Villehardouin had not boasted when he claimed that the best men-at-arms of Western Europe were joining the host.

Previous Crusades had enlisted larger armies, but in none had the organisation been so precise. Each lord and baron, in accordance with his degree, had made himself the captain of a company of men-at-arms and foot-sergeants who owned his leadership. The lesser barons, in turn, were leagued under the great lords of their localities, and these, likewise, ranged themselves under one or another of the princes at the head of the host, the Marquis Boniface de Montferrat, who had been elected general of the Crusade; Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault, Count Louis of Blois, Count Walter de Brienne, Count Hugh de St. Paul, Count Simon de Montfort or Count Bertrand von Katzenelenbogen who led the German Crusaders.

In this task of organisation Villehardouin had played the principal part. Indeed, no other man had borne so considerable a share of the burden of planning the details of mobilising and moving the Crusaders from widely-scattered countries across Europe and the Mediterranean, and now that his dream was approaching fulfilment he was happy as a lad.

"Ah, lordling, little may you guess the toils and anxieties which have been my lot," he said to Hugh, as they rode with the immense white skyline of the Alps before them. "Two and a half years have I laboured since my late lord, the Count Thibaut—God rest his soul!—and his cousin, the Count of Blois, took the cross at the tournament at Ecri and so set an example to all hardy Christians. Many a night have I lain sleepless, fearing the Crusade would never start; but always God hath stepped down and helped us when human aid was not.

"'Tis now more than a year gone since I treated with the Venetians to carry us over-sea, and there were times then when it seemed impossible we could come to terms. But the worst blow ever was struck at me was when I journeyed home, with fair terms gained, to find my lord, Count Thibaut, dying. Never lived there gentler knight! The barons had picked him for their leader, and when he died we were like children without a father.

"Time pressed, and none would fill his place. Duke Odo of Burgundy and Count Thibaut of Bar-le-duc refused. My heart weakened. I lost faith. But as a last resort we sent messages to the Marquis Boniface de Montferrat, begging him to lead us, and at a parliament held at Soissons he gave his consent. Ah, Messer Hugh, I cannot speak of our joy, for we knew him for a lord, bold and fearless and a right trusty knight."

"Well may you say so, Lord Marshal," agreed Matteo, who rode at Villehardouin's other bridle-rein. "There is no better general in all the world than the Marquis. He hath battled in the Holy Land and couched his spear against Saladin himself. The blood of Crusaders runs in his veins. And he hath a ready ear for knightly tales or polished chansons. Greeks and Saracens both he knoweth well."

"A good lord to follow in a good cause," added Hugh.

Matteo drummed with his fingers on his shield, and burst into the "Chanson of William of the Long Sword," elder brother of the Marquis Boniface, whose son was titular King of Jerusalem. The knights urged their horses closer, and when he came to the clamorous chorus they roared it after him, so that the Burgundian peasants by the wayside dropped their tools of husbandry and fled in panic fear:

Bloody-red from helm to heel,
William Long Sword swung his steel!
Round him many a Paynim lance
Sought to ward him, to advance.
            But he slew them all.
'Gainst his arm could naught avail—
Scimiter or Damascus mail—
              Crushed to earth they fall!

Matteo was always in demand amongst the knights of the several companies, and Hugh found himself thrown into increasing intimacy with the Cæsar Michael and his daughter—or rather, with the Lady Helena. How it began Hugh could not say. But early in the march it was settled that he was to ride with her for certain periods each day. At first it seemed that he met her as they were starting forth in the morning or after the midday rest or perhaps in the midst of a stroll about a village, in which the camp was pitched for the night. Accident was the cause of these early encounters, and loneliness and curiosity stimulated others.

She repelled him, whilst she attracted him. There was something of Oriental mystery, as well as languor, in her character. He was conscious that the face she opposed to him was a mask behind which another personality—he suspected a more fiery, intense, tigerish self, capable of immense selfishness and gusty passions—lurked in enforced concealment. Once he surprised this self, when he looked up to see her eyes blazing under their heavy lids as if they would read the inmost secrets of his heart. But it fled instantly to cover.

"You are so strange-, Messer Hugh," she smiled. "I was wondering if you were really so good and generous?"

There was an under-current of mockery in her words that put Hugh upon the defensive.

"You would make fun of me," he reproached her.

"No," she asserted. "I was thinking of how you listened to the outlaw who argued the wrongs of his kind. It was as if you credited him."

"I did," said Hugh simply. "There is much evil in the world—as Messer Fulke says—and most of it falls upon the peasants."

"But what else are they made for? It is their portion to serve, even as it is the portion of the horse or the dog or the oxen."

"They have souls," answered Hugh, puzzled. "They are people like us, are they not?"

"Oh, have your western monks decided so?" she said carelessly. "'Twas a point I thought otherwise upon."

So she tricked him out of the question he would have asked, at the same time involuntarily exposing a view of her own soul, the driving power of that hidden personality.

She was more than ordinarily interesting to talk to, for she had known exile since she was a child and had travelled in many countries—over practically all the known world. To Hugh, fresh from his quiet backwater in far-away England, she was a mine of information. He listened breathless to her off-hand stories of courts and rulers and tourneys. But of Constantinople she seldom spoke.

"'Tis a subject that irks me," she replied when he would have questioned her. "Forbear, Messer Hugh. An you were an exile seeing all that you loved and treasured seized by others, the glory and power that was rightfully yours in the possession of a usurper, you would know the sorrow that embitters me."

Then her big eyes flamed and her hand opened and shut, as she dropped her horse's rein.

"Oh, that I were a man!" she cried. "With a few stout knaves at my back I would storm the Triple-Wall and cast Alexius from his ill-gotten throne. I would bind him and his sycophants, tear out their eyes, and leave them to drag out their days with the rats in the dungeons of Blachernae."

"Are they very terrible dungeons?" asked Hugh idly.

The mask dropped across her face.

"All dungeons are terrible," she answered colourlessly.

She paused as if she expected him to ask more; but he said nothing, vaguely uneasy, with the feeling that comes when a hostile swordsman is faced.

For all his reticence, his secret distrust, he could not escape entirely the subtle spell she wove around him. She was beautiful; she was interested in him; she made herself attractive to him. Often he pressed the hunting-glove that he carried beneath his hauberk, and breathed a quiet prayer. He was a simple lad, untaught in the world's ways, only his native honesty and singleness of purpose betwixt him and temptation.

He required all his strength one night when she surprised him as he sat against a boulder on an Alpine hillside, the frosty stars twinkling overhead and a vasty silence below, wrestling with the contending forces in his heart.

The first he knew of her was her hand on his mailed arm.

"Ah, Messer Hugh, you are thinking of your love at home in England," she said softly.

"Love? No—'tis not so," stumbled Hugh.

"Then you have no lady you are pledged to?"

Hugh held silent, and the fingers on his arm seemed to burn through the mail.

"You do not answer," she sighed reproachfully.

"There is nobody in England," he muttered.

She laughed in a way she had, the persuading trill of lapping water in her voice.

"Nobody? That is because there are so many."

He did not answer, and she came closer.

"Do the hills make you lonely, too?" she whispered.

He shivered. It was uncanny.

"Yes," he jerked betwixt clicking teeth.

She waited, still very close to him.

"You do not ask me to sit by you, Hugh," she suggested.

"I—I——"

He rose stiffly.

"Let us seek a fire," he said, mastering himself by a supreme effort. "I am cold."

She walked beside him without a word.

Later that night, whilst Hugh vainly longed for sleep, Matteo came to him.

"Hugh," began the jongleur, "are we comrades?"

"Yes," said Hugh, surprised.

"And betwixt us there are no secrets?"

"I know of none."

"That is well, comrade. Now, prithee, bear with what I say. I speak as becomes a friend. Hugh, I have watched the Lady Helena's interest in you, and it hath seemed to me that she worked with some end in view. I know not what it may be, any more, perchance, than yourself. But we have a quest, you and I; and I feel that she is concerned in it. So my counsel is to discover to her naught of our plans and to remember always that she is a suspected foe."

Hugh clasped the jongleur's hand.

"That is good counsel," he said gratefully. "Doubt not I will heed it."

Matteo's few words proved the necessary alchemy to clear the confusion of Hugh's thoughts. Weaker impulses he put resolutely aside, facing squarely the issues of right and duty. He spent more time in Matteo's company, chatted with knights and lords of tricks of arms, brave deeds in the past, exploits of venery or falconry. At night he slept peacefully again.

If Helena Comnena entertained resentment for Hugh's rebuff, she concealed it easily during the days in which the Crusaders pressed on across the plains of Lombardy toward the head of the Adriatic Sea, where Venice ruled unchallenged from her citadel in the centre of the lagoons. Her manner toward him was precisely the same, a mingling of friendliness and mockery. But she never reverted to their old intimacy until the afternoon the host halted by a sedgy shore and stared over the waters at a silhouette of sparkling domes and towers that marked the Island City.

Huge flat-bottomed boats for the horses and galleys to tow them and carry the knights were in waiting. On all sides rose the bustle of embarkation. Several knights had bidden her adieu, and Hugh rode up in his turn.

"Here we part, lady," he said, and he could not be sure whether he spoke in regret or satisfaction.

"Not so," she denied, and momentarily her eyes swept up to his. "We drift from each other for a little space, Messer Hugh. But—read me for a fortune-teller an you will—Fate hath woven the strands of our lives into the same pattern."

"What mean you?"

"An I knew it all, still I should not tell you," she replied. "Yet here is one crumb for you, confident youth: be jealous how you relate your quest to strangers."

Her father cried out to her, and she turned her horse to ride on board the barge reserved for them.

"Also, I think that you will travel to Constantinople in good company," she flung over her shoulder.

CHAPTER XI

THE GREEN GONDOLA

By the arrangements of the Venetians, the bulk of the Crusaders were transferred to a camp prepared for them on the island of San Nicolo. Villehardouin and the leaders and chief barons were carried on the Doge's state barge to the Palace of St. Mark. As the Marshal went aboard, he called to the comrades standing on the bank:

"Give me the pleasure of your company to-morrow noon, fair sirs. I will make you known to His Magnificence the Doge. It may be he can aid you on your way."

"We will not forget, Lord Marshal," answered Hugh.

With a chorus of farewell shouts from the other knights, the barge shoved off, and the comrades were left surrounded by the ferrymen, each one vociferously demanding the task of carrying them across the lagoons to the city.

"What are we to do?" asked Hugh of Matteo in bewilderment. "Know you where we may come by a night's lodging?"

"That do I," returned the jongleur promptly. "Be at your ease."

He snapped an order in the lingua franca—that polyglot tongue which was the universal medium of intercourse along the polyglot shores of the Mediterranean,—cuffed one ferryman out of the path, thrust the butt of his lance at a second. A way was cleared for them, and they rode to where the various craft were drawn up against the bank. Matteo studied the boats separately, and finally selected one which looked a trifle less shabby than its rivals.

"This will do," he announced. "Come, varlet, be about your business. We have tarried over-long."

The ferryman jumped to obey, drove off his jealous fellows with a wide sweep of his long oar, and then assisted Ralph to lead the horses on board. Presently, they floated from the bank and began to creep over the placid water towards the glowing outline of Venice.

As they drew near the city, and its colours and architecture became distinct, Hugh exclaimed in admiration:

"Never thought I there could be aught so beautiful as this! And the churches! They are frequent as inns."

"It is a great city," agreed Matteo. "After Constantinople, mayhap, the richest in the world. Here you will find men from every country, even the Saracens—yes, and from beyond their lands—and all men meet here in peace to trade and exchange their goods."

"Where are we going?"

"To the fondaco of one Messer Annibale Ziniani, who tradeth with the merchants of Tripoli and Antioch. I am not unknown to him. He will give us right good shelter, and perchance can find us a ship for Constantinople. These merchants each know what the other does. 'Tis their way."

The ferryman and his crew pushed lustily at their huge sweeps, and the flat-bottomed craft forged ahead at a surprising pace. They struck across the lagoons at right angles to the course taken by the flotilla which had borne the Crusaders to San Nicolo, and soon made the entrance to a lane of water which led between the outer groups of buildings in what might be termed the suburbs of the island city.

"They have no walls!" marvelled Hugh.

"What want they of walls?" answered Matteo. "Their stout galleys are walls enough for them, and the water which rings them round is sufficient moat. No enemy ever has dared to strike at the Venetians. His fate would be certain."

"And have they no streets?" demanded Hugh, as the ferry swept along between lines of houses, built flush to the water's edge, allowing room only for shallow flights of landing-stairs.

"Yes, in some sections of the city. 'Tis built not directly in the water, as you might suppose, but on a series of islands and islets, great and small. On the larger islands there are a few streets, but the principal avenues are made of water, and the people vastly prefer to ride hither and yon in their small boats."

As the ferry neared the centre of the city, the traffic on the water increased until it crowded the canal. The boats were all quite small—gondolas, Matteo called them—and the boatmen were exceedingly dexterous in their management, guiding them through the throng with a mere twist of the wrist on the single oar trailing astern. Occasionally a barge of six oars or one of the State galleys used for the patrol of the city clove a path through the swarm of light craft. Hugh could not understand why accidents did not occur when boats dashed out of side canals apparently without any heed to the craft navigating the main waterway. But the boatmen never lost their heads, no matter how loud the clamour of voices or how dense the press.

It was almost dark, when the ferryman turned east from the Grand Canal into one of the waterways which crossed it and brought his unwieldy craft to rest against a flight of steps leading up to a ponderous castellated structure, with grated windows on its lower stories and massive, iron-scrolled doors guarding the entrance.

"This is the fondaco Ziniani," said Matteo.

"I should call it a palace or a castle," returned Hugh doubtfully, craning his head back to observe the tiers of windows and the tall tower that rose at one corner of the pile.

"You would not be wrong, comrade," laughed Matteo. "'Tis both, and I can promise you a fair lodging. Come, let us ascend. Ralph, do you remain in the ferry. The man will take you around to the garden-gate, where you may leave the horses. All things are comprised in this building, Hugh, even to a grassy garden, where Beosund may crop to his belly's content."

He put his hand in Hugh's arm, and they ran swiftly up the steps. As they approached the door it swung inward, admitting them to a hall of tremendous dimensions, lighted by lamps which hung by bronze chains from the roof and by innumerable torches of resinous wood stuck in bronze holders on the walls. The smoky light made the interior of the building more mysterious, more shadowy, to Hugh's dazed eyes.

He was conscious of a hearty voice which spoke in Italian. It changed to French, and he became aware of a very fat man, dressed in gorgeous velvet, with a heavy gold chain, set with brilliants, around his neck, bowing courteously in the shadows by the door.