The leader of this particular party was a knight in the prime of life, of noble, prepossessing bearing; who managed his horse as if rider and steed were one, like the Centaur of old.
They encamped for the night in the open, hard by the Sacred Well.
Scarcely were the camp-fires lit, when a villager sought an audience of the commander, which was at once granted.
"Noble seigneur," he said, "a Christian pilgrim lies dying at the caravansary hard by, and craves the consolations of religion. Thou art both monk and soldier?"
"I am."
"And wilt visit the dying man?"
"At once."
And only draining a goblet of wine and munching a crust, the leader followed the guide, retaining his arms, according to rule; first telling his subordinate in command where he was going.
On the slopes of the eastern hill stood the caravansary, built in the form of a hollow square; the courtyard devoted to horses and cattle, chambers opening all round the inner colonnade, with windows looking outward upon the country.