Meanwhile her red-cross knight was lying prone,
Sore wounded, life nigh spent,
On Acre's plains.
He'd swooned and woke to find him 'neath, a tent.
With balm a maiden soothed his throbbing veins.
No other soul came near save she a maid unknown.
Low whispers could he often hear without.
Fresh unctions were applied;
His wounds Soon healed.
Whene'er he groaned swift flew she to his side:
At other times the maiden lay concealed.
At last she brought the news of Saladin's great rout.
The Saracen Maid's Secret.
What secret spring had moved this maiden's heart
To save her nation's fee,
At risk of life?
Far rather had he died than live to know
That precious secret was to be his wife.
Too well she knew that now 'twas death from him to part!
At length the lingering weeks of healing passed
He e'en must quit for aye
Her angel tent.
"Take me. Sir knight, to be your slave alway!
O leave me not, or my poor heart is rent!"
She said, and at his feet her tender form she cast.
He bade her rise! then heard her fearful tale—
An orphan doomed to be
A lifelong slave
And serve a tyrant's lust and infamy.
From such, Sir Harold swore he would her save,
Whate'er the cost the deed might to himself entail.
The Secret Assassin.
He smuggled her on board one darksome night.
In deepest hold she lay,
Till safe at sea.
And when at last they found the stow-away
The hearts of all rejoiced that she was free
While midst the sick she moved a minist'ring sprite.