We whisked by many a gray old medieval castle, clad thick with ivy that swung its green banners down from towers and turrets where once some old Crusader’s flag had floated.  The driver pointed to one of these ancient fortresses, and said, (I translate): 

“Do you see that great iron hook that projects from the wall just under the highest window in the ruined tower?”

We said we could not see it at such a distance, but had no doubt it was there.

“Well,” he said; “there is a legend connected with that iron hook.  Nearly seven hundred years ago, that castle was the property of the noble Count Luigi Gennaro Guido Alphonso di Genova——­”

“What was his other name?” said Dan.

“He had no other name.  The name I have spoken was all the name he had.  He was the son of——­”

“Poor but honest parents—­that is all right—­never mind the particulars —­go on with the legend.”

Thelegend.

Well, then, all the world, at that time, was in a wild excitement about the Holy Sepulchre.  All the great feudal lords in Europe were pledging their lands and pawning their plate to fit out men-at-arms so that they might join the grand armies of Christendom and win renown in the Holy Wars.  The Count Luigi raised money, like the rest, and one mild September morning, armed with battle-ax, portcullis and thundering culverin, he rode through the greaves and bucklers of his donjon-keep with as gallant a troop of Christian bandits as ever stepped in Italy.  He had his sword, Excalibur, with him.  His beautiful countess and her young daughter waved him a tearful adieu from the battering-rams and buttresses of the fortress, and he galloped away with a happy heart.

He made a raid on a neighboring baron and completed his outfit with the booty secured.  He then razed the castle to the ground, massacred the family and moved on.  They were hardy fellows in the grand old days of chivalry.  Alas!  Those days will never come again.

Count Luigi grew high in fame in Holy Land.  He plunged into the carnage of a hundred battles, but his good Excalibur always brought him out alive, albeit often sorely wounded.  His face became browned by exposure to the Syrian sun in long marches; he suffered hunger and thirst; he pined in prisons, he languished in loathsome plague-hospitals.  And many and many a time he thought of his loved ones at home, and wondered if all was well with them.  But his heart said, Peace, is not thy brother watching over thy household?

* * * * * * *

Forty-two years waxed and waned; the good fight was won; Godfrey reigned in Jerusalem—­the Christian hosts reared the banner of the cross above the Holy Sepulchre!

Twilight was approaching.  Fifty harlequins, in flowing robes, approached this castle wearily, for they were on foot, and the dust upon their garments betokened that they had traveled far.  They overtook a peasant, and asked him if it were likely they could get food and a hospitable bed there, for love of Christian charity, and if perchance, a moral parlor entertainment might meet with generous countenance—­“for,” said they, “this exhibition hath no feature that could offend the most fastidious taste.”