“Pardon me but a moment,” continued Ilderim. “When thou, a poor and obscure soldier, didst so boldly and so highly fix thine affection, tell me, hadst thou good hope of its issue?”
“Love exists not without hope,” replied the knight; “but mine was as nearly allied to despair as that of the sailor swimming for his life, who, as he surmounts billow after billow, catches by intervals some gleam of the distant beacon, which shows him there is land in sight, though his sinking heart and wearied limbs assure him that he shall never reach it.”
“And now,” said Ilderim, “these hopes are sunk—that solitary light is quenched for ever?”
“For ever,” answered Sir Kenneth, in the tone of an echo from the bosom of a ruined sepulchre.
“Methinks,” said the Saracen, “if all thou lackest were some such distant meteoric glimpse of happiness as thou hadst formerly, thy beacon-light might be rekindled, thy hope fished up from the ocean in which it has sunk, and thou thyself, good knight, restored to the exercise and amusement of nourishing thy fantastic fashion upon a diet as unsubstantial as moonlight; for, if thou stood'st tomorrow fair in reputation as ever thou wert, she whom thou lovest will not be less the daughter of princes and the elected bride of Saladin.”
“I would it so stood,” said the Scot, “and if I did not—”
He stopped short, like a man who is afraid of boasting under circumstances which did not permit his being put to the test. The Saracen smiled as he concluded the sentence.
“Thou wouldst challenge the Soldan to single combat?” said he.
“And if I did,” said Sir Kenneth haughtily, “Saladin's would neither be the first nor the best turban that I have couched lance at.”
“Ay, but methinks the Soldan might regard it as too unequal a mode of perilling the chance of a royal bride and the event of a great war,” said the Emir.