'By the mass, I have heard priests say so,' replied Bisset, after a
pause, during which he eyed the boy with evident surprise; 'and mayhap,'
continued he, 'in the days of Peter the Hermit, and Godfrey of Bouillon,
such was the case. But, credit me, in our day, armed pilgrims are guilty
of such flagrant sins during their pilgrimage, and while decked with the
Cross, that I hardly deem them likely to get access to Paradise on such
easy terms.'

'By St. John of Beverley,' exclaimed the squire, in great astonishment,
'deem you that matters are so much changed, sir knight?'

'So much so,' answered Bisset, shaking his head, 'that seeing, save
myself, you are almost the only Englishman left in this army of
pilgrims, I am free to confess to you my opinion, that for aught we are
likely to do for the Holy Sepulchre, we might as well have stayed at
home, and hunted, and hawked, and held our neighbours at feud. On my
life, I have seen enough of this army to feel sure that Blacas, the
troubadour knight, is a wise man, when on being asked whether he will go
to the Holy Land, answers, that he loves and is beloved, and that he
will remain at home with his ladye love.'

And already, forgetting his wounds, and his bruises, his hair-breadth
escape, and the terrible scenes in which he had that day acted a part,
the knight, as he reached the tent of King Louis, and prepared to
dismount, half chanted, half sung, the lines with which Blacas concludes
his simple song:--

Je ferai ma penitence,
Entre mer et Durance,
Aupres de son manoir.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE FIRST FRIDAY IN LENT.

ON the day when the city of Mansourah witnessed the carnage of the
Crusaders under the Count of Artois, and a great battle shook the plain
outside the walls, the Egyptians experienced by turns fear and hope, joy
and sadness.

On the morning when the camp at Djedile was taken, and the Emir
Fakreddin slain, a pigeon carried intelligence of the disaster to Cairo;
and the Egyptian capital was immediately in consternation. Believing
that the days of Islamism were numbered, and the empire of the sultan on
the verge of ruin, the inhabitants thought of nothing but escape from
the danger that impended. Many departed for Upper Egypt, and sorrow
reigned in the city--the inhabitants bewailing their misfortunes, and
crying that the world was coming to an end. A second pigeon, however,
carried thither tidings that the Count of Artois