for him to cry Montjole St. Denis by the Nile. For behold he was now
speeding on a crazy errand to the ends of the earth.

There had been strange councils in the bare little chamber of the Most
Christian King. Those locusts of the dawn whom men called Tartars, the
evil seed of the Three Kings who had once travelled to Bethlehem, had,
it seemed, been vouchsafed a glimpse of grace. True, they had plundered
and eaten the faithful and shed innocent blood in oceans, but they hated
the children of Mahound worse than the children of Christ. On the eve
of Christmas-tide four envoys had come from their Khakan, monstrous men
with big heads that sprang straight from the shoulder, and arms that
hung below the knee, and short thin legs like gnomes. For forty weeks
they had been on the road, and they brought gifts such as no eye had
seen before--silks like gossamer woven with wild alphabets, sheeny jars
of jade, and pearls like moons. Their Khakan, they said, had espoused
the grandchild of Prester John, and had been baptized into the Faith. He
marched against Bagdad, and had sworn to root the heresy of Mahound from
the earth. Let the King of France make a league with him, and between
them, pressing from east and west, they would accomplish the holy task.
Let him send teachers to expound the mysteries of Cod, and let him
send knights who would treat on mundane things. The letter, written
in halting Latin and sealed with a device like a spider's web, urged
instant warfare with Egypt. "For the present we dwell far apart," wrote
the Khakan; "therefore let us both get to business."

So Aimery had been summoned to the King's chamber, where he found his
good master, the Count of St. Pol, in attendance with others. After
prayer, Louis opened to them his mind. Pale from much fasting and
nightly communing with God, his face was lit again with that light which
had shone in it when on the Friday after Pentecost the year before
he had received at St. Denis the pilgrim's scarf and the oriflamme of
France.

"God's hand is in this, my masters," he said. "Is it not written that
many shall come from the east and from the west to sit down with Abraham
in his kingdom? I have a duty towards those poor folk, and I dare not
fail."

There was no man present bold enough to argue with the white fire in the
King's eyes. One alone cavilled. He was a Scot, Sir Patrick, the Count
of Dunbar, who already shook with the fever which was to be his death.

"This