Hubert was taken away, leaving his two fellow countrymen behind him—­taken away, joined to a gang of slaves like himself:  and at eventide, under the care of drivers, they formed a caravan, and set out westward, making for the distant heights of Lebanon.  He was the only Englishman in the party, but close by was a young Poitevin, whose downcast manner and frequent tears aroused the pitying contempt of our Hubert, who thus at last was moved to address him: 

“Cheer up, brother.  While there is life there is hope.”

“Not for those who become the slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain.”

Hubert started:  the “Old Man of the Mountain”—­he had often heard of him, but had thought him only a “bogy,” invented by the credulous amongst the crusaders and pilgrims.  He was said to be a Mohammedan prince of intense bigotry, who collected together all the promising boys he could find, whom from early years he trained in habits of self devotion, and, alas! of cruelty; eradicating in them all respect for human life, or sympathy for human suffering.  His palace was on the slopes of Lebanon, and was well supplied with Christian slaves from the various markets; and it was said that those who continued obstinate in their faith were, sooner or later, put cruelly to death for the sport of the amiable pupils, to familiarise them with such scenes, and render them callous to suffering.

And when his education was finished, the “Old Man” presented each pupil with a dagger, telling him that it was for the heart of such or such a Christian warrior or statesman, and sent him forth.  The deeds of his pupils are but too well recorded in the pages of history {28}.

Into the hands of this worthy man our Hubert had fallen, and even his hopeful temperament—­always buoyant under misfortune—­could not prevent him from sharing the despondency he had so pitied, and a little despised.

In the evening, they arrived at a caravansary, and there the slaves were told to rest, chained two and two together, and, furthermore, huge bloodhounds stalked about the courtyard, within and without, and if a slave but moved, their watchful growl showed what little chance there was of escape.

Little?  Rather, none.

In the morning, up again, and away for the west, until the slopes of the mountains were attained on the third day, and the palace of the “Old Man” soon appeared in sight.

A grand Eastern palace—­cupolas, minarets gleaming in the setting sun—­terraces, fountains, cloistered arcades, cool and refreshing—­gardens wherein grew the vine, the fig, the pomegranate, the melon, the orange, the lemon, and all the fruits of the East—­wherein toiled wretched slaves under the watchful eyes of cruel overseers and savage dogs.

When they arrived they were all put to sleep in cells opening upon a courtyard with a tank in the centre.  They were supplied with mats for beds, and chained, each one by the ankle, to a staple in the wall.  And without the dogs prowled and growled all night.