He turned, with a clash of arms, and stared uncomprehendingly at the elegant, slim figure in the clinging silken draperies and high conical headdress. Could this be the Edith he had known? The comrade of boyish escapades, the breeched and jerkined rider of the black mare, the woman-child, hoydenish and demure, creature of tears and smiles? This wondrously beautiful person, with the haughty manner of a princess born to command?
"It is even I, oh, conqueror of Galata!"
"You knew me?" he gasped.
"Ay, verily, sir knight. I waited long for you to step up and greet me, and in the end I cast away my poor pride and sought you, supposing that perchance you had dropped me from your memory."
"I forget you?" said Hugh bewildered. "Nay, Edith. Hast—hast——"
His fingers sought instinctively the place under his hauberk where there nestled—had nestled for two years now—a frayed and soiled little glove.
"Do you seek for somewhat else than memory, Messer Hugh?" she questioned.
"It is a glove—you gave me," answered Hugh stumblingly.
She flushed.
"We will not speak of that now. Hast no curiosity to learn how I heard of you?"