“Even as you wish,” said Sir Tyrius; “I will await your return here.”
Thus did the friends separate. Sir Guido reached the Holy Land, and fought valiantly against the Saracens. Many and dire were his conflicts with the infidels, but in all of them he bore aloft the cross, and in his hands it never bowed before the crescent. Every one spoke of his deeds of arms, of his charity, and of his kindness; the minstrels made songs of his exploits, and spread his fame over the whole Christian world. Sir Tyrius, too, was successful in Dacia; by his aid the king regained his throne, and the infidels were driven from the kingdom. Rewards and thanks followed his successes; the king regarded him as the preserver of his throne, and considered no rewards too great or too good for the Christian warrior. The rewards of the good are ever sources of envy to the wicked. So was it at the court of the Dacian king. The prosperity of Sir Tyrius was gall and wormwood to a knight of Dacia, Sir Plebeus, who, until the coming of this stranger, had been looked upon as the greatest warrior of the Dacian people. To envy succeeded hatred, to hatred falsehood. Treason, he insinuated was in the mind of Tyrius; he aspired to the crown which he had recovered from the infidel.
Alas! how easily do we credit falsehood, how readily do we believe that every one is as wicked as ourselves. The king believed the words of Plebeus. He called his preserver before him, charged him with treason, and upbraided him with ingratitude.
“Go,” said he, “leave my court. I have honored thee much, I would have honored thee yet more. Now I give thee thy life in return for the valiant blows you struck for me; go in peace, but in poverty.”
“Miserable creature that I am,” murmured Sir Tyrius; “whither shall I flee in this my abject poverty?”
Sadly and slowly he wandered on, his eyes cast down, his hands crossed upon his breast. At last he sat down by the way-side.
“Friend,” said a tall pilgrim, whose careworn look showed how long he had been journeying, “friend, whence comest thou?”
“Father,” replied Tyrius, “I am of Rome; years have I lived in this land, and now I seek another home. Years have passed since my companion parted with me but a few miles from here; he sought the Holy Land, and whether he be dead or alive I know not.”
“Friend,” replied the palmer, “I am wearied; suffer me, by the memory of your friend, I pray you, suffer me to repose my head on your knees, that I may sleep awhile.”
Tyrius pitied the poor pilgrim, and acceded to his request. The palmer’s cloak was drawn over his face, so that he could distinguish but a portion of his features.