“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, as glancing over the long line of men-at-arms, he gazed upon the Arab steeds,—“How the eye of Lord Julian will glisten when he gazes upon yonder mettled barbs! I’ faith it makes an old warrior’s heart beat, to look upon their arching crests, their eyes of fire, and their skins, black as death.”
“A Paynim warrior gave these steeds in ransom for his freedom? Is that the story Sir Geoffrey?” asked Halbert, “Infidel though he was, he gave a most princely ransom.”
“Hast ever heard the strange legend which the Arabs tell, concerning this race of steeds? They prize them, highly as their weight in gold, red gold. It is said that in the olden time, when Arimanes was hurled from his throne of Evil, by Ormaz, the Great Being of Good, the spirits of his followers, accursed and doomed, sought refuge in the bodies of a race of ebon-colored barbs, that scoured the plains of Araby with the fleetness of the wind, herding together in the vast solitudes of the desert, and untameable by man. At last, after a long lapse of centuries, the most daring of the Arab-chiefs, secured and subjugated to the control of man, two of these wild horses, from which sprung the race of the Barbs of Arimanes, or Demon-Steeds. Yonder horses, prancing and rearing in the grasp of the tawny Moors, are of this race. By my soul, their flashing eyes give them some title to the name they bear—the Barbs of Arimanes!”
“It joys a warrior’s heart to look upon their sinewy forms,” exclaimed the Esquire Halbert, with a flashing eye.
“They are slender and graceful as the wild gazelle,” said Damian, “and yet your stout war-horse of the north bears not fatigue or toil with a better grace.”
“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, “Damian, art thou not sorrowed at the thought of leaving the Holy Land—the glorious scene of so many hard-fought frays? I trow we will all wish to be again in the midst of the gallant mellay; shall we not pine for the rugged encounter with the Paynim host—What sayst thou, Halbert?”
“He that leaves so brave a battle plain as is the land of the Holy Sepulchre, without a sigh of regret, is unworthy of the lay of minstrel, or love of ladye. For my part, I would all these truces were at the devil!”
“I say amen to thy prayer, good brother.”
“Well, well, we shall soon reach the castle Di Albarone; we shall behold our brave leader, the gallant Count Julian. By the body of God, it stirs one’s blood to think of his charge, that ever mowed down the Paynim ranks as though a thunderbolt had smote them! St. George! but I have seen glorious days.”
“By’r Lady, but I have a sneaking fear that the wound of the Count may prove fatal.”