“Nay, he had thine eyes and brow,” replied the Knight, with a faltering voice, and turning away his head.

“Walter,” resumed the lady, sighing, “do you remember?—­this is his birthday.  He is ten years old today.  We have loved each other eleven years, and thou hast not tired yet of thy poor Adeline.”

“As well might the saints weary of paradise,” replied Montreal, with an enamoured tenderness, which changed into softness the whole character of his heroic countenance.

“Could I think so, I should indeed be blest!” answered Adeline.  “But a little while longer, and the few charms I yet possess must fade; and what other claim have I on thee?”

“All claim;—­the memory of thy first blushes—­thy first kiss—­of thy devoted sacrifices—­of thy patient wanderings—­of thy uncomplaining love!  Ah, Adeline, we are of Provence, not of Italy; and when did Knight of Provence avoid his foe, or forsake his love?  But enough, dearest, of home and melancholy for today.  I come to bid thee forth.  I have sent on the servitors to pitch our tent beside the sea,—­we will enjoy the orange blossoms while we may.  Ere another week pass over us, we may have sterner pastime and closer confines.”

“How, dearest Walter! thou dost not apprehend danger?”

“Thou speakest, lady-bird,” said Montreal, laughing, “as if danger were novelty; methinks by this time, thou shouldst know it as the atmosphere we breathe.”

“Ah, Walter, is this to last for ever?  Thou art now rich and renowned; canst thou not abandon this career of strife?”

“Now, out on thee, Adeline!  What are riches and renown but the means to power!  And for strife, the shield of warriors was my cradle—­pray the saints it be my bier!  These wild and wizard extremes of life—­from the bower to the tent—­from the cavern to the palace—­today a wandering exile, tomorrow the equal of kings—­make the true element of the chivalry of my Norman sires.  Normandy taught me war, and sweet Provence love.  Kiss me, dear Adeline; and now let thy handmaids attire thee.  Forget not thy lute, sweet one.  We will rouse the echoes with the songs of Provence.”

The ductile temper of Adeline yielded easily to the gaiety of her lord; and the party soon sallied from the castle towards the spot in which Montreal had designed their resting-place during the heats of day.  But already prepared for all surprise, the castle was left strictly guarded, and besides the domestic servitors of the castle, a detachment of ten soldiers, completely armed, accompanied the lovers.  Montreal himself wore his corselet, and his squires followed with his helmet and lance.  Beyond the narrow defile at the base of the castle, the road at that day opened into a broad patch of verdure, circled on all sides, save that open to the sea, by wood, interspersed with myrtle and orange, and a wilderness of odorous shrubs.  In this space, and sheltered by the broad-spreading and classic fagus (so improperly