“Alas, ’twas rather impossible for him not to go!”
“I’m in no humor for such petty jesting! See, his steed is there yet,” and Sir Charleroy turned on his heel impatiently as he spoke.
“Pardon, companion, he that departed was borne away by the white charger with black wings!”
“Dead?”
“Mortals say ‘dead’ of such, but it were better to say he is free.”
“Peace to his soul,” fervently spoke Sir Charleroy.
“Ah, knight, thou canst not imagine the peacefulness of his going!”
“But why were we not summoned? We might have consoled him at least; perhaps we might have healed. What was his malady?”
“A poisoned arrow wounded him in the retreat from Acre. He did not realize his peril until the agonies of the end were wracking his body. Then he said, ‘Too late; it’s useless to attempt resistance of the inevitable.’”