The two knelt side by side at the little shrine for a long time, saying nothing; then both left the church, and together threaded the dirty lanes of the town, going southward to the meadows where was Richard's encampment. As they stepped into the bright light of day, Longsword saw that the stranger was an exceeding handsome man, with flashing gray eyes, long fair hair, and, though his limbs were slender and delicate, his muscles and frame seemed knit from iron. When they passed the city gate, Richard asked the other to come to his tent. "You are my elder, my lord; do not think my request presumption."
"And why do you say 'my lord'?" asked the stranger, smiling.
"Can I not see that your bleaunt, though sombre, is of costliest cendal silk? that your 'pelisson' is lined with rare marten? that the chain at your neck is too heavy for any mean cavalier? And—I cry pardon—I see that in your eye which makes me say, 'Here is a mighty lord!'"
The knight laughed again, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Good sir," said he, at length, "I see you are a 'sage' man. You desire to go to Jerusalem?"
"Yes, by Our Lady!"
"So do I; and I have come no small journey to hear the Holy Father. Let us seal friendship. Your name?"
"Richard Longsword, Baron of St. Julien," answered the Norman, promptly, thrusting out his hand.
"And mine," replied the other, looking fairly into Longsword's face, with a half-curious expression, "is Godfrey of Bouillon."
But Richard had dropped the proffered hand, and bowed very low. "Godfrey of Bouillon? Godfrey of Lorraine? O my Lord Duke, what folly is mine in thrusting myself upon you—" But Godfrey cut him short.