The scene must change to the camp of King Richard of England, who, afflicted with a slow and wasting fever, lay on his couch of sickness, loathing it as much in mind as his illness made it irksome to his body.  “Hark, what trumpets are there?” he said, endeavouring to start up.  “By heaven! the Turks are in the camp, I hear their lelies!” Breathless and exhausted he sank back.  “Go, I pray thee, De Vaux, and bring me word what strangers are in the camp.”  Sir Thomas de Vaux had not made many steps from the royal pavilion when he met the Knight of the Leopard, who, accosting him with formal courtesy, desired to see the king; he had brought back with him a Moorish physician, who had undertaken to work a cure.  Sir Thomas answered haughtily that no leech should approach the sick bed without his, the Baron of Gilsland’s, consent, and turned loftily away; but the Scot, though not without expressing his share of pride, solemnly assured him that he desired but the safety of Richard, and Saladin himself had sent thither this Muslim physician.  Sir Kenneth’s squire had been suffering dangerously under the same fever, and the leech, El Hakim, had ministered to him not two hours before, and already he was in a refreshing sleep.

“May I see your sick squire, fair sir?” at length said the Englishman.

The Scottish knight hesitated and coloured, yet answered at last: 

“Willingly, my lord of Gilsland, but I am poorly lodged,” and led the way to his temporary abode.

“This is a strange tale, Sir Thomas,” said the king, when he had heard the report.  “Art thou sure that this Scottish man is a tall man and true?”

“I cannot say, my lord,” replied the jealous borderer; “I have ever found the Scots fair and false, but the man’s bearing is that of a true man, and I warrant you have noted the manner in which he bears himself as a knight.  He hath been fully well spoken of.”

“And justly, Thomas,” said the king.  “Yes, I have indeed marked the manner in which this knight does his devoir, and he had ere now tasted your bounty but that I have also marked his audacious presumption.”

“My liege,” said the Baron of Gilsland, “your majesty will pardon me to remind you that I have by mine office right to grant liberty to men of gentle blood, to keep a hound or two within the camp, and besides, it were a sin to harm a thing so noble as this gentleman’s dog, the most perfect creature of heaven, of the noblest northern breed.”

The king laughed.

“Well, thou hast given him leave to keep the hound, so there is an end of it.  But to this piece of learned heathenness—­say’st thou the Scot met him in the desert?”

“No, my liege, the Scot’s tale runs thus:  He was dispatched to the old hermit of Engaddi—­”

“’Sdeath and hell!” said Richard, starting up, “by whom dispatched, and for what?  Who would send anyone thither when our queen was in the convent of Engaddi?”