The Talisman

“If your Majesty,” said Edith, in a tone which Sir 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, Florise,” 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 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 Sir 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, sweet one, the wisdom of Nectabanus could conjure him hither in no name but yours.”

“Gracious Heaven! your Majesty does not say so?” said Edith, in a voice of alarm quite different from the agitation she had previously 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.”

“Oh, 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 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 Sir 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. 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 own’st him not as a friend. Nay, look not so reproachfully. We will send Nectabanus 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 water-reed,” said Nectabanus, “your Majesty is mistaken, He is nearer at hand than you wot – he lieth ensconced there behind that canvas 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, Nectabanus 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 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.

“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 rather 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 compartment 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 the Scottish knight, 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 agitated 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 Sir 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,” answered Kenneth. “What reck I how soon punishment follows? I have but one 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 that my poor services could have been required or valued by you.”

“I do forgive you – oh, I have nothing to forgive! have been the means of injuring you. But oh, 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. Oh, 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 pass under the canvas in the manner he had entered required time and attention, and he made a readier aperture by slitting the canvas wall with his poniard. When in the free air, he felt rather stupefied 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 path 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 instant of his leaving the tent, and Sir Kenneth had to struggle with this inconvenience at a moment when the dizziness of his head and the fullness of his heart scarce left him powers of intelligence sufficient to direct his motions.

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 Sir 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 forth at this moment, and showed him that the Standard of England was vanished, that the spear on which it had floated lay broken on the ground, and beside it was his faithful hound, apparently in the agonies of death.

CHAPTER XIV

     All my long arrear of honour lost,     Heap’d 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.

After a torrent of afflicting sensations, by which he was at first almost stunned and confounded, Sir 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 to some persons, but scarce to any who have made intimate acquaintances among the canine race, may appear 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 Sir 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 Sir 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 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 of 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 rain – cold, comfortless, unfriendly to man and to animal; yet from that season have their birth the flower and the fruit, the date, the rose, and the pomegranate.”

Sir Kenneth of the Leopard turned towards the speaker, and beheld the Arabian physician, who, approaching 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 less in a display of the sage’s own inventive talents, than 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, Sir Kenneth dashed his tears indignantly aside, and again busied himself with his dying favourite.

“The poet hath said,” continued the Arab, without noticing the knight’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 Sir Kenneth; “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.”

Sir Kenneth acceded 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 creature 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 El Hakim, addressing himself to Sir Kenneth, “if you will permit me to carry him to my tent, and treat him with the care which the nobleness of his nature deserves. For know, that thy 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 afflict the human race.”

“Take him with you,” said the knight. “I bestow him on you freely, if he recovers. 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 Sir 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 the knight sternly, “is better than a man who survives the desertion of 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 Sir 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!”

“How!” said El 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 you 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.”

“And if it were so, physician,” said Sir 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 Mohammed, 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 Sir 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 apostasy 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 will, and, being one whose second life is doomed to misery, Saladin will yet, for 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 enterprise, is like a large dromond [The largest sort of vessels then known were termed dromond’s, or dromedaries.] 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 knewest not, perchance, the full tenor of thine own errand.”

“I knew 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 shall be a gibbeted and dishonoured corpse?”

“Nay, I speak that it may not be so with thee,” said the physician. “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 Melech 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 further, 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 of Plantagenet.” [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 have been ignorant of the existence of Edith of Plantagenet. – See MILL’S History of the Crusades, vol. ii., p. 61.]

“Ha! – sayest thou?” exclaimed Sir 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 a union so unnatural as that of a Christian maiden with an unbelieving Saracen?”

“Thou art but an ignorant, bigoted Nazarene,” said the Hakim. “Seest thou not how the Mohammedan 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 women of his zenana, that she shall be in every respect his sole and absolute queen.”