Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

GRAY.

It had been agreed, on account of the heat of the climate, that the judicial combat which was the cause of the present assemblage of various nations at the Diamond of the Desert should take place at one hour after sunrise. The wide lists, which had been constructed under the inspection of the Knight of the Leopard, enclosed a space of hard sand, which was one hundred and twenty yards long by forty in width. They extended in length from north to south, so as to give both parties the equal advantage of the rising sun. Saladin’s royal seat was erected on the western side of the enclosure, just in the centre, where the combatants were expected to meet in mid encounter. Opposed to this was a gallery with closed casements, so contrived that the ladies, for whose accommodation it was erected, might see the fight without being themselves exposed to view. At either extremity of the lists was a barrier, which could be opened or shut at pleasure. Thrones had been also erected, but the Archduke, perceiving that his was lower than King Richard’s, refused to occupy it; and Coeur de Lion, who would have submitted to much ere any formality should have interfered with the combat, readily agreed that the sponsors, as they were called, should remain on horseback during the fight. At one extremity of the lists were placed the followers of Richard, and opposed to them were those who accompanied the defender Conrade. Around the throne destined for the Soldan were ranged his splendid Georgian Guards, and the rest of the enclosure was occupied by Christian and Mohammedan spectators.

Long before daybreak the lists were surrounded by even a larger number of Saracens than Richard had seen on the preceding evening. When the first ray of the sun’s glorious orb arose above the desert, the sonorous call, “To prayer — to prayer!” was poured forth by the Soldan himself, and answered by others, whose rank and zeal entitled them to act as muezzins. It was a striking spectacle to see them all sink to earth, for the purpose of repeating their devotions, with their faces turned to Mecca. But when they arose from the ground, the sun’s rays, now strengthening fast, seemed to confirm the Lord of Gilsland’s conjecture of the night before. They were flashed back from many a spearhead, for the pointless lances of the preceding day were certainly no longer such. De Vaux pointed it out to his master, who answered with impatience that he had perfect confidence in the good faith of the Soldan; but if De Vaux was afraid of his bulky body, he might retire.

Soon after this the noise of timbrels was heard, at the sound of which the whole Saracen cavaliers threw themselves from their horses, and prostrated themselves, as if for a second morning prayer. This was to give an opportunity to the Queen, with Edith and her attendants, to pass from the pavilion to the gallery intended for them. Fifty guards of Saladin’s seraglio escorted them with naked sabres, whose orders were to cut to pieces whomsoever, were he prince or peasant, should venture to gaze on the ladies as they passed, or even presume to raise his head until the cessation of the music should make all men aware that they were lodged in their gallery, not to be gazed on by the curious eye.

This superstitious observance of Oriental reverence to the fair sex called forth from Queen Berengaria some criticisms very unfavourable to Saladin and his country. But their den, as the royal fair called it, being securely closed and guarded by their sable attendants, she was under the necessity of contenting herself with seeing, and laying aside for the present the still more exquisite pleasure of being seen.

Meantime the sponsors of both champions went, as was their duty, to see that they were duly armed and prepared for combat. The Archduke of Austria was in no hurry to perform this part of the ceremony, having had rather an unusually severe debauch upon wine of Shiraz the preceding evening. But the Grand Master of the Temple, more deeply concerned in the event of the combat, was early before the tent of Conrade of Montserrat. To his great surprise, the attendants refused him admittance.

“Do you not know me, ye knaves?” said the Grand Master, in great anger.

“We do, most valiant and reverend,” answered Conrade’s squire; “but even you may not at present enter — the Marquis is about to confess himself.”

“Confess himself!” exclaimed the Templar, in a tone where alarm mingled with surprise and scorn —“and to whom, I pray thee?”

“My master bid me be secret,” said the squire; on which the Grand Master pushed past him, and entered the tent almost by force.

The Marquis of Montserrat was kneeling at the feet of the hermit of Engaddi, and in the act of beginning his confession.

“What means this, Marquis?” said the Grand Master; “up, for shame — or, if you must needs confess, am not I here?”

“I have confessed to you too often already,” replied Conrade, with a pale cheek and a faltering voice. “For God’s sake, Grand Master, begone, and let me unfold my conscience to this holy man.”

“In what is he holier than I am?” said the Grand Master. —“Hermit, prophet, madman — say, if thou darest, in what thou excellest me?”

“Bold and bad man,” replied the hermit, “know that I am like the latticed window, and the divine light passes through to avail others, though, alas! it helpeth not me. Thou art like the iron stanchions, which neither receive light themselves, nor communicate it to any one.”

“Prate not to me, but depart from this tent,” said the Grand Master; “the Marquis shall not confess this morning, unless it be to me, for I part not from his side.”

“Is this YOUR pleasure?” said the hermit to Conrade; “for think not I will obey that proud man, if you continue to desire my assistance.”

“Alas,” said Conrade irresolutely, “what would you have me say? Farewell for a while —— we will speak anon.”

“O procrastination!” exclaimed the hermit, “thou art a soul-murderer! — Unhappy man, farewell — not for a while, but until we shall both meet no matter where. And for thee,” he added, turning to the Grand Master, “TREMBLE!”

“Tremble!” replied the Templar contemptuously, “I cannot if I would.”

The hermit heard not his answer, having left the tent.

“Come! to this gear hastily,” said the Grand Master, “since thou wilt needs go through the foolery. Hark thee — I think I know most of thy frailties by heart, so we may omit the detail, which may be somewhat a long one, and begin with the absolution. What signifies counting the spots of dirt that we are about to wash from our hands?”

“Knowing what thou art thyself,” said Conrade, “it is blasphemous to speak of pardoning another.”

“That is not according to the canon, Lord Marquis,” said the Templar; “thou art more scrupulous than orthodox. The absolution of the wicked priest is as effectual as if he were himself a saint — otherwise, God help the poor penitent! What wounded man inquires whether the surgeon that tends his gashes has clean hands or no? Come, shall we to this toy?”

“No,” said Conrade, “I will rather die unconfessed than mock the sacrament.”

“Come, noble Marquis,” said the Templar, “rouse up your courage, and speak not thus. In an hour’s time thou shalt stand victorious in the lists, or confess thee in thy helmet, like a valiant knight.”

“Alas, Grand Master,” answered Conrade, “all augurs ill for this affair, the strange discovery by the instinct of a dog — the revival of this Scottish knight, who comes into the lists like a spectre — all betokens evil.”

“Pshaw,” said the Templar, “I have seen thee bend thy lance boldly against him in sport, and with equal chance of success. Think thou art but in a tournament, and who bears him better in the tilt-yard than thou? — Come, squires and armourers, your master must be accoutred for the field.”

The attendants entered accordingly, and began to arm the Marquis.

“What morning is without?” said Conrade.

“The sun rises dimly,” answered a squire.

“Thou seest, Grand Master,” said Conrade, “nought smiles on us.”

“Thou wilt fight the more coolly, my son,” answered the Templar; “thank Heaven, that hath tempered the sun of Palestine to suit thine occasion.”

Thus jested the Grand Master. But his jests had lost their influence on the harassed mind of the Marquis, and notwithstanding his attempts to seem gay, his gloom communicated itself to the Templar.

“This craven,” he thought, “will lose the day in pure faintness and cowardice of heart, which he calls tender conscience. I, whom visions and auguries shake not —— who am firm in my purpose as the living rock — I should have fought the combat myself. Would to God the Scot may strike him dead on the spot; it were next best to his winning the victory. But come what will, he must have no other confessor than myself — our sins are too much in common, and he might confess my share with his own.”

While these thoughts passed through his mind, he continued to assist the Marquis in arming, but it was in silence.

The hour at length arrived; the trumpets sounded; the knights rode into the lists armed at all points, and mounted like men who were to do battle for a kingdom’s honour. They wore their visors up, and riding around the lists three times, showed themselves to the spectators. Both were goodly persons, and both had noble countenances. But there was an air of manly confidence on the brow of the Scot — a radiancy of hope, which amounted even to cheerfulness; while, although pride and effort had recalled much of Conrade’s natural courage, there lowered still on his brow a cloud of ominous despondence. Even his steed seemed to tread less lightly and blithely to the trumpet-sound than the noble Arab which was bestrode by Sir Kenneth; and the SPRUCH-SPRECHER shook his head while he observed that, while the challenger rode around the lists in the course of the sun — that is, from right to left — the defender made the same circuit WIDDERSINS— that is, from left to right — which is in most countries held ominous.

A temporary altar was erected just beneath the gallery occupied by the Queen, and beside it stood the hermit in the dress of his order as a Carmelite friar. Other churchmen were also present. To this altar the challenger and defender were successively brought forward, conducted by their respective sponsors. Dismounting before it, each knight avouched the justice of his cause by a solemn oath on the Evangelists, and prayed that his success might be according to the truth or falsehood of what he then swore. They also made oath that they came to do battle in knightly guise, and with the usual weapons, disclaiming the use of spells, charms, or magical devices to incline victory to their side. The challenger pronounced his vow with a firm and manly voice, and a bold and cheerful countenance. When the ceremony was finished, the Scottish Knight looked at the gallery, and bent his head to the earth, as if in honour of those invisible beauties which were enclosed within; then, loaded with armour as he was, sprung to the saddle without the use of the stirrup, and made his courser carry him in a succession of caracoles to his station at the eastern extremity of the lists. Conrade also presented himself before the altar with boldness enough; but his voice as he took the oath sounded hollow, as if drowned in his helmet. The lips with which he appealed to Heaven to adjudge victory to the just quarrel grew white as they uttered the impious mockery. As he turned to remount his horse, the Grand Master approached him closer, as if to rectify something about the sitting of his gorget, and whispered, “Coward and fool! recall thy senses, and do me this battle bravely, else, by Heaven, shouldst thou escape him, thou escapest not ME!”

The savage tone in which this was whispered perhaps completed the confusion of the Marquis’s nerves, for he stumbled as he made to horse; and though he recovered his feet, sprung to the saddle with his usual agility, and displayed his address in horsemanship as he assumed his position opposite to the challenger’s, yet the accident did not escape those who were on the watch for omens which might predict the fate of the day.

The priests, after a solemn prayer that God would show the rightful quarrel, departed from the lists. The trumpets of the challenger then rung a flourish, and a herald-at-arms proclaimed at the eastern end of the lists —“Here stands a good knight, Sir Kenneth of Scotland, champion for the royal King Richard of England, who accuseth Conrade, Marquis of Montserrat, of foul treason and dishonour done to the said King.”

When the words Kenneth of Scotland announced the name and character of the champion, hitherto scarce generally known, a loud and cheerful acclaim burst from the followers of King Richard, and hardly, notwithstanding repeated commands of silence, suffered the reply of the defendant to be heard. He, of course, avouched his innocence, and offered his body for battle. The esquires of the combatants now approached, and delivered to each his shield and lance, assisting to hang the former around his neck, that his two hands might remain free, one for the management of the bridle, the other to direct the lance.

The shield of the Scot displayed his old bearing, the leopard, but with the addition of a collar and broken chain, in allusion to his late captivity. The shield of the Marquis bore, in reference to his title, a serrated and rocky mountain. Each shook his lance aloft, as if to ascertain the weight and toughness of the unwieldy weapon, and then laid it in the rest. The sponsors, heralds, and squires now retired to the barriers, and the combatants sat opposite to each other, face to face, with couched lance and closed visor, the human form so completely enclosed, that they looked more like statues of molten iron than beings of flesh and blood. The silence of suspense was now general. Men breathed thicker, and their very souls seemed seated in their eyes; while not a sound was to be heard save the snorting and pawing of the good steeds, who, sensible of what was about to happen, were impatient to dash into career. They stood thus for perhaps three minutes, when, at a signal given by the Soldan, a hundred instruments rent the air with their brazen clamours, and each champion striking his horse with the spurs, and slacking the rein, the horses started into full gallop, and the knights met in mid space with a shock like a thunderbolt. The victory was not in doubt — no, not one moment. Conrade, indeed, showed himself a practised warrior; for he struck his antagonist knightly in the midst of his shield, bearing his lance so straight and true that it shivered into splinters from the steel spear-head up to the very gauntlet. The horse of Sir Kenneth recoiled two or three yards and fell on his haunches; but the rider easily raised him with hand and rein. But for Conrade there was no recovery. Sir Kenneth’s lance had pierced through the shield, through a plated corselet of Milan steel, through a SECRET, or coat of linked mail, worn beneath the corselet, had wounded him deep in the bosom, and borne him from his saddle, leaving the truncheon of the lance fixed in his wound. The sponsors, heralds, and Saladin himself, descending from his throne, crowded around the wounded man; while Sir Kenneth, who had drawn his sword ere yet he discovered his antagonist was totally helpless, now commanded him to avow his guilt. The helmet was hastily unclosed, and the wounded man, gazing wildly on the skies, replied, “What would you more? God hath decided justly — I am guilty; but there are worse traitors in the camp than I. In pity to my soul, let me have a confessor!”

He revived as he uttered these words.

“The talisman — the powerful remedy, royal brother!” said King Richard to Saladin.

“The traitor,” answered the Soldan, “is more fit to be dragged from the lists to the gallows by the heels, than to profit by its virtues. And some such fate is in his look,” he added, after gazing fixedly upon the wounded man; “for though his wound may be cured, yet Azrael’s seal is on the wretch’s brow.”

“Nevertheless,” said Richard, “I pray you do for him what you may, that he may at least have time for confession. Slay not soul and body! To him one half hour of time may be worth more, by ten thousandfold, than the life of the oldest patriarch.”

“My royal brother’s wish shall be obeyed,” said Saladin. — “Slaves, bear this wounded man to our tent.”

“Do not so,” said the Templar, who had hitherto stood gloomily looking on in silence. “The royal Duke of Austria and myself will not permit this unhappy Christian prince to be delivered over to the Saracens, that they may try their spells upon him. We are his sponsors, and demand that he be assigned to our care.”

“That is, you refuse the certain means offered to recover him?” said Richard.

“Not so,” said the Grand Master, recollecting himself. “If the Soldan useth lawful medicines, he may attend the patient in my tent.”

“Do so, I pray thee, good brother,” said Richard to Saladin, “though the permission be ungraciously yielded. — But now to a more glorious work. Sound, trumpets — shout, England — in honour of England’s champion!”

Drum, clarion, trumpet, and cymbal rung forth at once, and the deep and regular shout, which for ages has been the English acclamation, sounded amidst the shrill and irregular yells of the Arabs, like the diapason of the organ amid the howling of a storm. There was silence at length.

“Brave Knight of the Leopard,” resumed Coeur de Lion, “thou hast shown that the Ethiopian may change his skin, and the leopard his spots, though clerks quote Scripture for the impossibility. Yet I have more to say to you when I have conducted you to the presence of the ladies, the best judges and best rewarders of deeds of chivalry.”

The Knight of the Leopard bowed assent.

“And thou, princely Saladin, wilt also attend them. I promise thee our Queen will not think herself welcome, if she lacks the opportunity to thank her royal host for her most princely reception.”

Saladin bent his head gracefully, but declined the invitation.

“I must attend the wounded man,” he said. “The leech leaves not his patient more than the champion the lists, even if he be summoned to a bower like those of Paradise. And further, royal Richard, know that the blood of the East flows not so temperately in the presence of beauty as that of your land. What saith the Book itself? — Her eye is as the edge of the sword of the Prophet, who shall look upon it? He that would not be burnt avoideth to tread on hot embers — wise men spread not the flax before a flickering torch. He, saith the sage, who hath forfeited a treasure, doth not wisely to turn back his head to gaze at it.”

Richard, it may be believed, respected the motives of delicacy which flowed from manners so different from his own, and urged his request no further.

“At noon,” said the Soldan, as he departed, “I trust ye will all accept a collation under the black camel-skin tent of a chief of Kurdistan.”

The same invitation was circulated among the Christians, comprehending all those of sufficient importance to be admitted to sit at a feast made for princes.

“Hark!” said Richard, “the timbrels announce that our Queen and her attendants are leaving their gallery — and see, the turbans sink on the ground, as if struck down by a destroying angel. All lie prostrate, as if the glance of an Arab’s eye could sully the lustre of a lady’s cheek! Come, we will to the pavilion, and lead our conqueror thither in triumph. How I pity that noble Soldan, who knows but of love as it is known to those of inferior nature!”

Blondel tuned his harp to his boldest measure, to welcome the introduction of the victor into the pavilion of Queen Berengaria. He entered, supported on either side by his sponsors, Richard and Thomas Longsword, and knelt gracefully down before the Queen, though more than half the homage was silently rendered to Edith, who sat on her right hand.

“Unarm him, my mistresses,” said the King, whose delight was in the execution of such chivalrous usages; “let Beauty honour Chivalry! Undo his spurs, Berengaria; Queen though thou be, thou owest him what marks of favour thou canst give. — Unlace his helmet, Edith; — by this hand thou shalt, wert thou the proudest Plantagenet of the line, and he the poorest knight on earth!”

Both ladies obeyed the royal commands — Berengaria with bustling assiduity, as anxious to gratify her husband’s humour, and Edith blushing and growing pale alternately, as, slowly and awkwardly, she undid, with Longsword’s assistance, the fastenings which secured the helmet to the gorget.

“And what expect you from beneath this iron shell?” said Richard, as the removal of the casque gave to view the noble countenance of Sir Kenneth, his face glowing with recent exertion, and not less so with present emotion. “What think ye of him, gallants and beauties?” said Richard. “Doth he resemble an Ethiopian slave, or doth he present the face of an obscure and nameless adventurer? No, by my good sword! Here terminate his various disguises. He hath knelt down before you unknown, save by his worth; he arises equally distinguished by birth and by fortune. The adventurous knight, Kenneth, arises David, Earl of Huntingdon, Prince Royal of Scotland!”

There was a general exclamation of surprise, and Edith dropped from her hand the helmet which she had just received.

“Yes, my masters,” said the King, “it is even so. Ye know how Scotland deceived us when she proposed to send this valiant Earl, with a bold company of her best and noblest, to aid our arms in this conquest of Palestine, but failed to comply with her engagements. This ............