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 noble 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 passage southward, through these solitudes, were grievously maltreated by robbers, whom the Turkish Government--ever the same--protected, provided they paid the due tithe 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."