At length, all obstacles removed, in the month of May, in the last year of the eleventh century, they entered the Holy Land.

On this sacred soil the action of our tale recommences.

. . . . .

It was a lovely evening in May, and the year was the last of the eleventh century.

The sun had gone down about half an hour, but had left behind him a flood of golden light in the west, glorious to behold—­so calm, so transparent was that heavenly after glow, wherein deep cerulean blue was flecked with the brightest crimson or the ruddiest gold.

The moon had risen in the east, and was shining from a deep dark-blue background, which conveyed the idea of immeasurable space, with a brilliancy which she seldom or never attains in our northern sky.

A group of warriors had kindled a fire beneath the wide-spreading branches of an immense cedar tree, which had, perhaps, been planted in the reign of Solomon to supply the loss of those cut down for the temple by Hiram of Tyre.

The landscape was a striking one.

Above them, in the distance, opened a mighty gorge, through which flowed the rushing waters of a mountain torrent, one of the sources of the Jordan, issuing from the snows of Hermon.

Below, the country expanded into a gently undulating plain, studded with cedars, which resembled in no small degree the precincts of some old English park.

Let us glance at the warriors, and we shall speedily learn that they are no natives of the soil.

The armour they have laid aside, the coats of linked mail, with long sleeves of similar material, the big triangular shields, plated gauntlets, and steel breastplates, sufficiently bespoke their western nationality; but the red cross, conspicuous on the right sleeve, told that they were Crusaders.

Their leader appeared to be a young knight who, one would think, had scarcely won his spurs, or had but recently done so; and his retinue was limited to the customary attendance upon a single “lance,” a dozen men-at-arms, completely equipped, and twice that number of light archers.

Their horses were picketed at a slight distance, so that they might graze easily, and like their owners, were divested of their armour—­for the steeds also were usually loaded with defensive mail covering the more vital parts of their frames.

The flesh of a deer was roasting at the general fire, and diffusing a savoury odour around, and all the members of the company were intent upon rest and enjoyment.

Apart from them stood their solitary sentinel, looking with dreamy gaze over the fair landscape, and musing, perchance, of far-off England—­of his distant love, or of wife and children, and wondering, very likely, whether, the war ended, he would live to return, with all the prestige of a warrior of the Cross, and tell of the marvels of Eastern climes to many a rustic audience.