Now consider the acts of Martin Vaux, smelling for the sea.  In a little time he did better than that, for he saw it from the top of a high mountain, shining far off in the haze, and then had nothing to do but follow down a river-bed, which brought him duly to Trieste.  Thence he got a passage to Venice, where the wineshops were too good or too many for him.  He talked of his misfortunes, of his broken shoes, of Austrian beer, of his exalted master, of his extreme ingenuity and capacity for all kinds of faithful service.  Now Venice was, as it is now, a place colluvies gentium.  Gaunt, lonely Arabs stalked the narrow streets, or dreamed motionless by the walls of the quay.  The city was full of strayed Crusaders, disastrous broken blades, of renegade Christians, renegade Moslems, adaptable Jews, of pilgrims, and chafferers of relics from the holy places.  Martin’s story spread like the plague, but not (unhappily) to any advantage of King Richard imperturbable in his tower.  Martin Vaux then, having drunk up the charity of Venice, shipped for Ancona.  There too he met with attentions, for there he met a countryman of his, the Sieur Gilles de Gurdun, a Norman knight.

When Sir Gilles heard that King Richard was in prison, but that Jehane was not with him, he grew very red.  That he had never learned of her deeds at Acre need not surprise you.  He had not heard because he had not been to Acre with the French host, but instead had gone pilgrim to Jerusalem, and thence with Lusignan to Cyprus.  So now he took Martin Vaux by the windpipe and shook him till his eyes stared like agate balls.  ’Tell me where Madame Jehane is, you clot, or I finish what I have begun,’ he said terribly.  But Martin could tell him no more, for he was quite dead.  It was proper, even in Ancona, to be moving after that; and Gilles was very ready to move.  The hunger and thirst for Jehane, which had never left him for long, came aching back to such a pitch that he felt he must now find her, see her, touch her, or die.  The King was her only clue; he must hunt him out wherever he might be.  One of two things had occurred:  either Richard had tired of her, or he had lost her by mischance of travel.  There was a third possible thing, that the Queen had had her murdered.  He put that from him, being sure she was not dead.  ‘Death,’ said Gilles, ’is great, but not great enough to have Jehane in her beauty.’  He really believed this.  So he came back to his two positions.  If the King had tired of her, he would not scruple (being as he was) to admit as much to Gilles.  If he had lost her, he was safe in prison; and Gilles knew that with time he could find her.  But he must be sure.  He thought of another thing.  ’If he is in prison, in chains, he might be stabbed with certain ease.’  His heart exulted at the hot thought.

It was not hard to follow back on Martin’s dallying footsteps.  He traced him to Venice, to Trieste, up the mountains as far as Blomau.  There he lost him, and shot very wide of the mark.  In fact, the slow-witted young man went to Vienna on a false rumour—­but it boots not recount his wanderings.  Six months after he left Ancona, ragged, hatless, unkempt, hungry, he came within sight of the strong towers of Gratz; and as he went limping by the town ditch he heard a clear, high voice singing—­