“None of these things,” spoke Jerome, as if compelling speech by force of will; “if gratitude is mine, let my reward be this,—the lives of Ulrich and his crew, that they may be yet changed from Children of Wrath to Children of Obedience.”
But here My Lord Graf was very sore displeased. One could see the purple veins in his high forehead swell, and through his haughty lips sped forth an oath,—yet in no Christian tongue,—a cry to some foul jinn of the East. Then to his great amaze Jerome staggered as though a sling-stone smote him.
“Catch him! He faints!”
So cried the Graf, outstretching a strong arm, and many ran, but the hermit rose in stately pride. Next in that same strange Orient speech he addressed Ludwig, and the proud chief in turn startled.
“Invoke no paynim fiends but answer. Have you been long in the East?”
“Yes.” But in turn Ludwig gazed as do men when turning mad, while two squires, not understanding the tongue, crossed themselves, fearing their lord was wantonly angering the saint.
“How long?”
“Five years at Acre, two at Antioch, three years a prisoner at Hems.”
“That was a long time since?”
“I have been in Europe now fourteen years.”