This knight, whose real name none knew, had been the first to take up the sword in defence of the pilgrims, who sought the Holy Sepulchre, and who, on their passage southward, through these solitudes, were grievously maltreated by robbers, whom the Turkish Government—­ever the same—­protected, provided they paid the due tithe of their spoils to the Sultan.

In their mountain solitudes, fame reported the knight to have his secret retreat, whence no Turk nor Saracen could dislodge him, and whence he often issued, the protector of the Christian, the dread of his oppressor.

He had thrown aside his visor.  Time, and perhaps grief, had marked many a wrinkle on his manly forehead; his hair and beard were grizzled with time and exposure; his age might have been variously estimated:  he seemed to bear the weight of half a century at the least, but perhaps toil and trouble had dealt more severely with him than time.

“My son,” he said, as he marked the intent gaze of the youth, who was excited by finding himself the companion of one so distinguished by feats of arms, “I have told thee my own vain designation; now, let me be anon the catechist.  Of what country art thou?”

“Hast thou heard of a fair island across the sea men call England?”

“Have I not?”

“That is then my home.”

“Thou art an Englishman? or do I not rather see one of the blood of the conquerors of that fair land.”

And here he suppressed what might have been a sigh.

“I am indeed Norman by my father’s side—­a race none need blush to own, and received but recently knighthood from the hands of Robert of Normandy, after the battle of Dorylaeum; but by my mother’s side I am of English blood.”

“And thou blushest not to own it?”

“Why should I?  Norman and English have long been peacefully united on my father’s lands, and we know no distinction.”

“Such, I have heard, is not yet everywhere the case in thine island; but thou hast not told me thy name.”

“Edward of Aescendune, son of Etienne, lord of Aescendune in England, and Malville in Normandy.”

The stranger started as if an arrow had suddenly pierced him.  The young knight looked on him with amazement.

“A fit to which I am subject—­it is nothing,” said he, regaining his composure and drinking a goblet of wine.  “May I ask thy mother’s name?  Thou saidst she was English.”

“Edith, daughter of Edmund, the English lord of Aescendune, and Winifred his wife.”

The knight was still evidently unwell—­a deadly pallor sat on his face.

“I fear me thou art hurt.”

“Nay, my son; one who like myself has lain for weeks in unwholesome caverns, with but scanty fare sometimes, contracts a tendency to this kind of seizure.  It will pass away.”

“Art thou interested in England?  Perhaps thyself English by birth?”

“I have said I have no country,” replied he, sadly.