rd, and the
other appurtenances of ancient chivalry, rode stately on his steel-clad
charger, himself a tower of steel. This mighty horseman was carried by
his steed as lightly as the young springald by his Andalusian hackney.

"'Twas well done of thee, Philibert," said he of the proof-armor, "to
ride forth so far to welcome thy cousin and companion in arms."

"Companion in battledore and shuttlecock, Romane de Clos-Vougeot!"
replied the younger Cavalier. "When I was yet a page, thou wert a belted
knight; and thou wert away to the Crusades ere ever my beard grew."

"I stood by Richard of England at the gates of Ascalon, and drew the
spear from sainted King Louis in the tents of Damietta," the individual
addressed as Romane replied. "Well-a-day! since thy beard grew, boy,
(and marry 'tis yet a thin one,) I have broken a lance with Solyman at
Rhodes, and smoked a chibouque with Saladin at Acre. But enough of this.
Tell me of home--of our native valley--of my hearth, and my lady-mother,
and my good chaplain--tell me of HER, Philibert," said the knight,
executing a demivolt, in order to hide his emotion.

Philibert seemed uneasy, and to strive as though he would parry the
question. "The castle stands on the rock," he said, "and the swallows
still build in the battlements. The good chaplain still chants his
vespers at morn, and snuffles his matins at even-song. The lady-mother
still distributeth tracts, and knitteth Berlin linsey-woolsey. The
tenants pay no better, and the lawyers dun as sorely, kinsman mine," he
added with an arch look.

"But Fatima, Fatima, how fares she?" Romane continued. "Since Lammas
was a twelvemonth, I hear nought of her; my letters are unanswered.
The postman hath traversed our camp every day, and never brought me a
billet. How is Fatima, Philibert de Coquelicot?"

"She is--well," Philibert replied; "her sister Anne is the fairest of
the twain, though."

"Her sister Anne was a baby when I embarked for Egypt. A plague on
sister Anne! Speak of Fatima, Philibert--my blue-eyed Fatima!"

"I say she is--well," answered his comrade gloomily.

"Is she dead? Is she ill? Hath she the measles? Nay, hath she had the
small-pox, and lost her beauty? Speak; speak, boy!" cried the knight,
wrought to agony.

"Her cheek is as red as her mother's, though the old Countess paints
hers every day. Her foot is as light as a sparrow's, and her voice as
sweet as a minstrel's dulcimer; but give me nathless the Lady