“Be not over hasty in that quest,” said the guest, “or the infidels may chance to gain two Freiherren instead of one. Hast any designs?”
Ebbo explained that he thought of making his way to Genoa to consult the merchant Gian Battista dei Battiste, whose description of the captive German noble had so strongly impressed Friedel. Ebbo knew the difference between Turks and Moors, but Friedel’s impulse guided him, and he further thought that at Genoa he should learn the way to deal with either variety of infidel. Theurdank thought this a prudent course, since the Genoese had dealings both at Tripoli and Constantinople; and, moreover, the transfer was not impossible, since the two different hordes of Moslems trafficked among themselves when either had made an unusually successful razzia.
“Shame,” he broke out, “that these Eastern locusts, these ravening hounds, should prey unmolested on the fairest lands of the earth, and our German nobles lie here like swine, grunting and squealing over the plunder they grub up from one another, deaf to any summons from heaven or earth! Did not Heaven’s own voice speak in thunder this last year, even in November, hurling the mighty thunderbolt of Alsace, an ell long, weighing two hundred and fifteen pounds? Did I not cause it to be hung up in the church of Encisheim, as a witness and warning of the plagues that hang over us? But no, nothing will quicken them from their sloth and drunkenness till the foe are at their doors; and, if a man arise of different mould, with some heart for the knightly, the good, and the true, then they kill him for me! But thou, Adlerstein, this pious quest over, thou wilt return to me. Thou hast head to think and heart to feel for the shame and woe of this misguided land.”
“I trust so, my lord,” said Ebbo. “Truly, I have suffered bitterly for pursuing my own quarrel rather than the crusade.”
“I meant not thee,” said Theurdank, kindly. “Thy bridge is a benefit to me, as much as, or more than, ever it can be to thee. Dost know Italian? There is something of Italy in thine eye.”
“My mother’s mother was Italian, my lord; but she died so early that her language has not descended to my mother or myself.”
“Thou shouldst learn it. It will be pastime while thou art bed-fast, and serve thee well in dealing with the Moslem. Moreover, I may have work for thee in Welschland. Books? I will send thee books. There is the whole chronicle of Karl the Great, and all his Palsgrafen, by Pulci and Boiardo, a brave Count and gentleman himself, governor of Reggio, and worthy to sing of deeds of arms; so choice, too, as to the names of his heroes, that they say he caused his church bells to be rung when he had found one for Rodomonte, his infidel Hector. He has shown up Roland as a love-sick knight, though, which is out of all accord with Archbishop Turpin. Wilt have him?”
“When we were together, we used to love tales of chivalry.”
“Ah! Or wilt have the stern old Ghibelline Florentine, who explored the three realms of the departed? Deep lore, and well-nigh unsearchable, is his; but I love him for the sake of his Beatrice, who guided him. May we find such guides in our day!”
“I have heard of him,” said Ebbo. “If he will tell me where my Friedel walks in light, then, my lord, I would read him with all my heart.”