“Look, my dears; we are coming to the mountains. There is the first snowy head.”
“Yes, mamma,” but the hats were together again in the corner.
“Come, Sydney, don’t lose this wonderful winding valley.”
“I see, Uncle James. Beautiful!” popping back instantly with, “Go on, Babie, dear. How did Sir Gilbert get them out of that horrid defile full of Turks? It is true, you said.”
“True that Louis VII. and Queen Eleanor got into that dreadful mess. Armine found it in Sismondi, but nobody knew who Sir Gilbert was except ourselves; and we are quite sure he was Sir Gilbert of the Ermine, the son of the brother who thought it his duty to stay at home.”
“Sir Philibert? Oh, yes! I know.”
“There are some verses about the Iconium Pass, written out in our spotted book, but I can say some of them.”
“Oh, do!”
“‘The rock is steep, the gorge is deep,
Mount Joye St. Denys;
But King Louis bold his way doth hold,
Mount Joye St. Denys.
Ho ho, the ravine is ‘narrow I ween,
Lah billah el billah, hurrah.
The hills near and far the Frank’s way do bar,
Lah billah el billah, hurrah.”
“It ought to be ‘Allah el Allah,’ but you know that really does mean a holy name, and Armine thought we ought not to have it. It was delightful making the ballad, for all the Christian verses have ‘Mount Joye St. Denys’ in the different lines, and all the Turkish ones ‘Lah billah,’ till Sir Gilbert comes in, and then his war-cry goes instead—