ld guard of the
Emperor of the East, whose service I left, to avenge the injuries
of the pilgrim, and to clear him a path through these robber-infested
wastes."

"And may I ask the country which is honoured by thy birth, the
nation which claims thee as her worthiest son?"

"I have no nation," said the knight; sadly; "for these thirty years
I have been an exile from home."

The young knight asked no further questions, fearing to probe some
secret wound. He gave the toast, and all drank it with cheers,
which made the solitude ring.

An indefinable interest centred in this knight: rumour made him a
noble of the later empire, the "Acolyth" or commander of that
famous band of guards, whom the policy of the Caesar gathered
around the tottering throne of Constantinople--exiles from all
nations, but especially from England--driven by various fortunes
from home. Hereward--and before him Norwegian Harold, who perished
at Stamford Bridge--had served in their ranks.

This knight, whose real name none knew, had been the first to take
up the sword in defence of the pilgrims, who sought the Holy
Sepulchre, and who, on their passage southward, through these
solitudes, were grievously maltreated by robbers, whom the Turkish
Government--ever the same--protected, provided they paid the due
tithe of their spoils to the Sultan.

In their mountain solitudes, fame reported the knight to have his
secret retreat, whence no Turk nor Saracen could dislodge him, and
whence he often issued, the protector of the Christian, the dread
of his oppressor.

He had thrown aside his visor. Time, and perhaps grief, had marked
many a wrinkle on his manly forehead; his hair and beard were
grizzled with time and exposure; his age might have been variously
estimated: he seemed to bear the weight of half a century at the
least, but perhaps toil and trouble had dealt more severely with
him than time.

"My son," he said, as he marked the intent gaze of the youth, who
was excited by finding himself the companion of one so distinguished
by feats of arms, "I have told thee my own vain designation; now,
let me be anon the catechist. Of what country art thou?"

"Hast thou heard of a fair island across the sea men call England?"

"Have I not?"

"That is then my home."

"Thou art an Englishman? or do I not rather see one of the blood of
the conquerors of that fair land."

And here he suppressed what might have been a sigh.

"I am indeed Norman by my f