Richard summoned a small boat, and with two stout men-at-arms, of whom Adam de Gourdon was one, prepared again to cross the river. Leonillo ran down the stone stairs with a wistful look of entreaty and it occurred to both Richard and Adam, that, could the child only lead them to the place where her father had sat, the dog’s scent might prove their most efficient guide.
Little Bessee seemed quite comforted when on her way back to her father, and sat on Richard’s knee, eating the comfits with which the Princess had provided her, and making him cut a figure that seemed somewhat to amaze the other boat-loads whom they encountered on the river.
When they landed, the throng was more dispersed, but revelry and sports of all kinds were going on fast and furiously; each door of the Abbey was besieged by hungry crowds receiving their dole, and Richard’s inquiries for a blind man who had lost his child were little heeded, or met with no satisfactory answer. Bessee herself was bewildered, and incapable of finding her father’s late station; and Richard was becoming perplexed, and doubtful whether he ought to take her back, as well as somewhat put out of countenance by the laughter of Thomas de Clare, and other young nobles, who rallied him on his strange charge.
At last the little girl’s face lightened as at sight of something familiar. “Good red monks,” she said. “They give Bessee soup—make father well.”
With a ray of hope, Richard advanced to a party of Brethren of St. John, who were mounting at the Abbey gate to return to their house at Spitalfields, and doffing his bonnet, intimated a desire to address the tall old war-worn knight with a benevolent face, who was adjusting his scarlet cloak, before mounting a gray Arab steed looking as old and worthy as himself.
“Ha! a young Crusader, I perceive,” was the greeting of the old knight, as his eye fell on the white cross on Richard’s mantle. “Welcome, brother! Dost thou need counsel on thy goodly Eastern way?”
“Thanks, reverend Sir,” returned Richard, “but my present purpose was to seek for the father of this little one, who fell into the river in the press. She pointed to you, saying she had received your bounty.”
“It is Blind Hal’s child, Sir Robert!” exclaimed a serving-brother in black, coming eagerly forward; “the villeins on the green told me the poor knave was distraught at having lost his child in the throng!”
“What brought he her there for?” exclaimed Sir Robert. “Poor fool! his wits must have forsaken him!”
“The child had a craving to see the show,” replied the Brother, “so Hob the cobbler told me; and all went well till my Lord of Pembroke’s retainers forced all right and left to make way in the crowd. Hal was thrown down, and the child thrust away till they feared she had fallen over the bank. Hob and his wife were fain to get the poor man away, for his moans and fierce words were awful: and he was not a little hurt in the scuffle, so I e’en gave them leave to lay him in the cart that brought up your reverence’s vestments, and the gear we lent the Abbey for the show.”