The Crusaders, so different in their stained and rusty armour and tattered surcoats from the richness of the Greeks, paused in front of the steps to the throne; and Boniface stood forward with the Young Alexius.
"Fair lord," he said, "behold, we bring back to you your son!"
"Eh? Eh?" mumbled the Emperor. "My—my son? Yes, yes. My son."
One of the group of courtiers behind the Emperor leaned over and whispered in his ear. Hugh nudged Matteo. The courtier was the Cæsar Michael Comnenus.
"Eh? Yes, yes," Isaac continued as Comnenus stepped back. "You have brought my son. I thank you, lords. I have been sorely tried. The majesty of Cæsar's heir hath been set at naught. The wicked have prevailed a while. But God hath—hath——" He seemed to fumble for words and turned the hollow cavities that were his eyes from side to side.—"Where is my son?" he ended querulously.
Alexius knelt on the topmost step of the throne, and kissed his father's limp hand. Neither one of the pair showed any emotion, but they spoke rapidly together in Greek.
"What do they say?" Hugh whispered to Matteo.
"The old Emperor is not such a fool as he looks," returned the jongleur. "He asks what brings these Franks in his son's train, and how much their services cost."
"They find no joy in each other's company," commented Hugh. "Nay, not even the Empress shows pleasure that her son is returned to her safe and whole."
"The Angeloi are a cold-blooded race," replied Matteo. "They have no affection. Fathers murder sons; sons blind fathers. It is all one to them, so be it there are power and luxury for them after the crime. As to the Empress, she is not this youth's mother. He was born of an earlier marriage."