"Ah!" cried Richard, "only lately have I resolved to go to Jerusalem; I have fought against it long. To go I must put by the wedding of the fairest, purest woman in all the world,—perhaps forever. Yet my sin is great; and the blood of my parents and brother, slain by the infidels, will not let me rest. But it is very hard."
"Therefore," said Godfrey, solemnly, with the fervor of an enthusiast kindling his eyes, "in the sight of God, your deed will have the more merit. Be brave, sweet brother. Put by every worldly desire and lust. I also have sworn to live as brother to mine own dear wife, till the paynims defile the city of the Lord no more. Our Lady grant us both the purer, uncarnal love, the glory passing thought, the seats at God's right hand!" And the great Duke strode on, his head bowed in deep revery, while Richard drew new strength and peace from his mere presence. Richard brought Godfrey to his own tent, letting De Carnac and the others know little of the story of his guest; and with the Duke came Count Renard of Toul, his comrade, a splendid and handsome cavalier, who seemed singularly ill-matched with his man-at-arms jerkin and plain steel cap. Longsword called Theroulde, and the jongleur was at his best that night as he sang the direful battle of Roncesvalles, the valor of Roland and Oliver, and the gallant Bishop Turpin; and of Ganelon and his foul treason, King Marsillius and his impious attack on the armies of Christ; the death of the dreadful paynim Valdobrun, profaner of Jerusalem, and a hundred heroes more. As the tale ran on, it was a thing to see how the Duke swelled with holy rage against the infidel. As Theroulde sang, sitting by the camp-fire, the Duke would forget himself, spring from the rugs, and dash his scabbard upon the ground, until at last when the jongleur told how Roland wound his great horn thrice in anguish, after it was all too late and the Frankish army far away, Godfrey could rein himself no more: "By the Splendor of God!" was his shout, "would that I had been there and my Lorrainers!" Then Theroulde was fain to keep silence till the terrible lord (for so he guessed him) could be at peace. Late that night they parted. On the morrow, report had it, the Pope would address all the Christians at Clermont from a pulpit in the great square.
"And then,—and then,"—repeated the Duke; but he said no more, for they all knew their own hearts. Richard lay down with a heart lighter than it had been for many a dreary day. "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" The name was talisman for every mortal woe.
Long after Richard had fallen asleep, Herbert sat with Theroulde, matching good stories before the camp-fire. The man-at-arms lolled back at full length by the blaze, his spade-like hands clasped under his head, his sides shaking with horse-laughs at Theroulde's jests. Suddenly the jongleur cut his merry tale short.
"St. Michael! There is a man lurking in the gloom behind the Baron's tent. Hist!"—and Theroulde pointed into the dark. Herbert was on his feet, and a javelin in his hand, in a twinkling.
"Where?" he whispered, poising to take aim.
"He is gone," replied the jongleur; "the night has eaten him up."
"You are believing your own idle tales," growled the man-at-arms.
"Not so; I swear I saw him, and the light as on a drawn dagger. He was a misshaped, dwarfish creature."