Hastily mounting a fresh horse, Richard again attacked Des Barres, but could not unhorse the knight, who stuck fast to his saddle. Then the Earl of Leicester attempted to aid Richard, but the king cried, "Let be, Robert; hold off and leave us alone!" But when, after many vain efforts, he had failed to overthrow the stout French warrior, Richard flew into a terrific rage, and cried, "Get thee hence, and appear no more before me, for I shall be thine enemy hereafter!" Whereupon William des Barres withdrew in much distress of mind, and asked the intercession of the King of France. Not until Philip, all the bishops, and the chiefs of the army had repeatedly besought Richard for grace, would the mortified king consent to the peaceable return of the knight. So unwise is it to successfully combat a king!

Soon after this episode fresh trouble arose between Richard and Philip. The King of France was brother to Alice, the betrothed bride of Richard. When he heard that Queen Eleanor was on her way to Sicily, bringing Berengaria, daughter of the King of Navarre, as a bride for the English king, Philip was enraged. He insisted that Richard was legally bound to Alice and could not marry any one else. Richard, who had been much charmed with Berengaria some years before while visiting her father's court at Pampeluna, now flatly refused to marry Alice. He accused her of most wicked conduct, such as rendered her unworthy to be his wife. Probably these charges were well founded, for Philip finally agreed, on certain conditions, to release Richard from the engagement with Alice. The French princess, then held prisoner in England by Eleanor, was to be returned to France, and Philip was to receive a large sum of money. An ecclesiastical court was then held, and it adjudged that Richard was no longer bound to Alice, but was free to marry as he pleased.

These matters settled, Philip set sail for Palestine on the very day that Eleanor arrived with Berengaria. The two royal ladies received a joyful welcome from the king, who went to meet them in his gayly decorated galley, Trenc-le-Mer.

He found Berengaria even lovelier than the young girl he had admired so long ago in Navarre. His heart yielded at once to the charms of the dark-eyed Spanish beauty, and the princess could not help loving such a handsome, brave, and eloquent prince; for Richard was no less ready with his tongue than with his sword, and won hearts as easily as battles. He had long before won the devotion and friendship of Berengaria's brother Sancho, a renowned warrior and poet; and this friendship doubtless commended him to Berengaria. At any rate, the betrothed pair were soon a pair of lovers and as happy as humbler sweethearts.

As it was then the solemn season of Lent, they resolved to postpone the wedding until after Easter. Richard, however, in token of his joy, gave a sumptuous betrothal feast, at which he instituted a new order of knights, vowed to deeds of valor in the Holy Land. Queen Eleanor, after remaining a few days with her dearly loved daughter and son, gave Berengaria into the care of Queen Joan, and herself returned to England.

Richard then made final preparations for the voyage. Before leaving, he gave Tancred, to whom he had become reconciled, "that best of swords, which the Britons call Caliburne (Excalibur), formerly the sword of Arthur, once the noble King of England."

At length the great fleet of busses, dromonds, and galleys set sail for Palestine. Berengaria and Joan sailed first in a large ship under the care of Stephen de Turnham, and Richard embarked last on Trenc-le-Mer. Erelong a storm arose, and the fleet was dispersed. Berengaria was very much alarmed for her lover's safety.

"She sighed not for her own, But King Richard's safety; And kept crying, 'Oh! look out, For sore is my fright, Whilst the King and his galleys Are all out of sight!'"

Two ships escorting the vessel of the princess and Joan were wrecked on the coast of Cyprus. Isaac, the emperor of that island, plundered the ships and imprisoned the survivors. He also refused to allow the vessel of the royal ladies to take shelter in the harbor of Limasol (now Limoussa).

Meanwhile, Richard's galley had taken shelter at Rhodes. As soon as the king learned of the straits in which the princesses were, he came to their aid with many war galleys. When he found them outside of the harbor, exposed to the violence of wind and sea, he was greatly enraged. But restraining his anger fairly well for so passionate a man, he sent messengers thrice to Isaac, "humbly begging him for the love of God and reverence for the life-giving cross" to free the captive Crusaders, and to restore their goods. The emperor, evidently not knowing with whom he had to deal, returned a haughty refusal.

Then Richard, very wroth, called his men to arms, and said: "Follow me, and we will take vengeance for the wrongs which this villainous emperor has done to God and to us in thus unjustly keeping our pilgrims in chains!" Without delay the forces rowed to the shore, where Isaac had drawn up his army to oppose them.

The English archers landed first, and their arrows fell upon the enemy "as a shower upon the grass." The doughty King Richard and his knights then rushed in, and quickly drove the Greeks before them like a flock of sheep. After Isaac's affrighted army had taken refuge in the mountains, he tried to make peace, but could come to no agreement with Richard, and fled from Limasol. The English king then stormed the town and took possession. Here he first used his famous battle-axe, for the old rhymer tells us:—

"The valiant King Richard, as I understand, Before he departed from old England, Made an axe to slaughter that infidel band, The Saracen dogs in the Holy Land. The head in sooth was wondrously wrought, Of steel twenty pounds, the best to be bought. And when that he landed in Cyprus land, He first took this terrible axe in hand; And he hewed and he hewed with such direful slaughter, That the blood flowed around him like pools of water."

With such a valiant leader, it is small wonder that the English were soon masters of the whole island of Cyprus. Isaac, after making a treaty with Richard and immediately breaking it, was captured by the English king, who bound him with silver fetters, kept him in prison, and gave his beautiful daughter to Berengaria as an attendant.

Ere this, Richard and Berengaria had been married with pomp and ceremony at Limasol, and crowned king and queen of Cyprus. The bride was simply attired in a white lawn dress, but wore a splendid girdle of jewels; and her flowing black tresses were adorned with a double crown. Richard wore a rose-colored tunic of satin, belted with jewels. A mantle of silk tissue, brocaded in silver crescents, fell from his shoulders, and on his head was a scarlet brocaded cap. By his side hung a Damascus blade in a silver-scaled sheath. Before the king was led his beautiful Cyprian steed, Favelle, gorgeously caparisoned, and bitted with gold, the saddle adorned with two little golden lions.

Not long after this grand ceremony, word came to Richard that Acre, a city of Palestine long besieged by the Crusaders already in the Holy Land, was about to surrender. Exclaiming, "Heaven grant that it be not taken before I arrive!" Richard immediately set sail for that port.

When near Beyrout, the English fell in with a large Saracen ship, and after a desperate but vain attempt to board the vessel, pierced its sides with the iron beaks of their galleys. The ship sank, and its crew were slain or drowned. Among the floating bodies that covered the sea, were seen many deadly serpents, which the infidels "had destined to work havoc among the Christians" besieging Acre.

Cheered by this victory, Richard and his men rejoiced still more when the walls and citadels and the great "accursed tower" of Acre came in sight. For long months this famous city, its walls lapped by the blue Mediterranean, had been girt round by a vast host of Crusaders,—"men of every Christian nation under heaven." Their camp was like an immense city, with streets and walls, and strong fortifications, especially on the landward side; for beyond this vast Christian camp, crowned by the high tower from which floated the great white banner of the Crusaders, lay a countless body of Turkish troops, swarming over the adjacent plains and mountain-sides. Thus the besieging Christians were themselves besieged.

The tents of the infidels were gay with colored devices and the yellow ensigns of Islam. As Richard neared the shore, these hated emblems of Mohammed and the famous black standard of Saladin, Sultan of the Saracens, were plainly visible to him, and stirred him to deep wrath. His anger burned the hotter when he recalled the stories told of the terrible havoc wrought by these infidels on the Christian hosts besieging the city. Night and day these fierce warriors of Saladin swooped down on the Christian camp. Scores of bloody battles had taken place. Almost beyond belief was the suffering that had been patiently endured by the soldiers of the Cross. Battles, hunger, and disease had thinned their ranks and sorely tried their souls. No wonder they hailed with joy the arrival of that famous warrior, Richard Coeur-de-Lion, for they believed that he would soon lead them to victory.

So amidst the din of drum and trumpet and clarion, and the deafening shouts of exultant thousands, King Richard set foot upon the Holy Land. And the red glare of huge bonfires and numberless torches carried the alarming tidings to Saladin and his army.

The King of France and the many princes met Richard, and welcomed him in a manner befitting his rank and his renown as the "most skilful warrior among Christian men." The camp was that night a scene of rejoicing and merriment. "Richard Coeur-de-Lion has come; Acre will soon be ours!" was the universal cry.

But, alas! the hopes built on the arrival of Coeur-de-Lion were not speedily realized. Richard fell ill of a fever, and could not lead the assault. Then Philip also became sick; so that the two kings could not lead their armies against the city at the same time. The feeling of jealousy between them also prevented united action. When one king undertook an assault, the other sulked in his tent. All the princes and leaders were at this time disputing about the rival claims of Guy de Lusignan and Conrade, Marquis of Montferrat, to the throne of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Philip favored the Marquis of Montferrat, but Richard supported Guy de Lusignan. These disputes were made more bitter by the haughty bearing of the King of England, who wished to rule in camp and council, and treated with scant courtesy the princes who presumed to oppose him. So discord reigned among the leaders, and prevented the united action that might soon have reduced the city.

Nevertheless, the fighting went vigorously on. Battle after battle was fought on the plain between the forces of Saladin and the Crusaders; assault after assault was made by the Christians on the beleaguered city.

Even during his illness, Richard had directed the making of stone-casters, slings, rams, and wooden towers for assaulting the walls of the besieged city. As soon as he was well enough, the king caused himself to be carried near the city wall and placed under the shelter of a kind of wooden hurdle. Seated there, he directed the movements of his men, who were endeavoring to undermine and carry by storm a tower of the fortifications.

As his soldiers rushed to the assault, Richard shouted that he would give three goldpieces to every man who should detach a stone from the tower wall. So the hope of reward, as well as the love of glory, led to deeds of reckless daring. While some soldiers dug underground, trying to sap the tower foundations, others plied the stone-casters and hurled immense stones into the city,—at one time killing twenty Turks with a single huge missile. Other bands of Christians strove to tear down or scale the walls; while the Turks, equally valiant, strained every nerve to hurl them back. The Christians "climbed the half-ruined battlements as wild goats climb precipitous rocks, while the Saracens threw themselves on the besiegers like stones unloosed from the top of a mountain." Huge stones and Greek fire rained down on the Crusaders.

Meanwhile King Richard, weak though he was, plied his great cross-bow vigorously and slew many Turks. One of the infidels was disporting himself on the wall, clad in the well-known armor of Alberic Clement,—a renowned and beloved Christian warrior, slain several days before by the Turks, after he had fought his way into the city itself. Richard sent a shaft through the very heart of this braggart Turk.

Now, when the tower had been almost battered down, other warriors from the Christian camp gathered to the assault; but the watchers on the city wall raised a cry of alarm, and all the Turkish warriors flew to arms. Then followed a fierce hand-to-hand conflict. In spite of most heroic efforts, the Crusaders were finally driven back. "Never," says the Christian chronicler, "has there been such a people for prowess in battle as these Turks."

Though wroth at this repulse, Richard continued to make frequent attacks of the same sort, and kept his stone-casters and other engines of war busy night and day until the defences of the city were much weakened. The inhabitants, disheartened also by famine and other hardships, finally sent envoys to Saladin, requesting permission to surrender the city. After much parley about conditions, the city capitulated, and the two Christian kings took possession. Soon the red-cross standard of the Crusade, the oriflamme of Saint Denis, and the banner of Saint George crowned the walls of Acre. The standard of Austria was also raised by the Archduke Leopold; but not long did it wave. The haughty Coeur-de-Lion flew into a rage on seeing the ensign of a mere duke flying beside the banners of kings. With his own royal hands he tore down the offending flag, and contemptuously ground it beneath his royal heel. Nor did the outraged archduke dare to resent the insult, though he cherished the memory of it in his heart, and well avenged himself at a later day.

The kings of France and England divided the city between them. Philip lodged himself in the splendid palace of the Templars,—a military order of Christian knights; and Richard established his court in the royal palace, with the two queens, Berengaria and Joan, and their ladies. Here for some time the kings lived in luxury and splendor, while all the Crusaders took their ease and rested from warfare.

But again quarrels arose over the kingship of Jerusalem. Finally it was agreed among the princes that Guy de Lusignan should be recognized as king, and the Marquis of Montferrat as his successor to the throne. After this agreement, Philip fell sick, and actually suspected Richard of having poisoned him. Weary of battle, exhausted by sickness, and mortified by the knowledge that Richard's fame as a warrior far surpassed his own, Philip resolved to return to France. As bound by treaty, he requested the consent of the English king to his departure.

"Eternal shame on him and all France if for any cause he leave the holy work unfinished!" cried Richard, when the messenger of Philip had spoken. But finally he was persuaded to give a reluctant consent in these words,—

"Well, let him go if his health require it, or if he cannot live without seeing Paris."

So the King of France, abandoning the Crusade, gladly set sail for his own country; but he left a large force under the Duke of Burgundy to aid Richard in the conquest of Jerusalem.

Now, Saladin had failed to carry out the terms of the surrender of Acre. At the time agreed upon, he had not delivered to Richard the stipulated sum of money, the Christian captives, or the true cross, which was in his possession. So the English king and the Duke of Burgundy led all their Saracen prisoners outside the walls of Acre and put them to death.

After this massacre and a fierce battle with the outraged warriors of Saladin, who in vain attempted to prevent the execution of their kinsmen and friends before their very eyes, Richard and his army set out by way of the coast for the city of Ascalon, the fleet accompanying them. Saladin, frenzied with rage at the massacre before Acre, though he himself was partly to blame, followed Richard, with vengeance in his heart. At every favorable opportunity, the sultan attacked the Christians and slew all who fell into his hands.

Never was there a more dreadful or fatal march. Countless arrows rained down on the soldiers from the Turks on the mountain heights. The scorching sun of Syria blazed upon their weary bodies by day, and deadly tarantulas poisoned them by night. Ever and anon the Turks, mounted on horses swifter than swallows, swooped down on the struggling ranks of Christians and wrought bloody havoc among them, escaping vengeance by the speed of their steeds. Thus tormented and harassed, it is little wonder that when encamped at night, the distressed Crusaders should all join with tears and groans and heart-felt fervor in the thrice-repeated evening cry of the heralds: "Help us, O Holy Sepulchre!" Sorely did they need divine help.

King Richard did all that valor and kindness could prompt for the protection and aid of his people. He led the van and was ever in the front of every fight, heedless of danger. In one of these battles he was painfully wounded. In another combat that French knight, William des Barres, who had incurred the king's displeasure at Messina, distinguished himself so greatly by his valor that he was fully restored to the favor and friendship of Richard. The king caused the pilgrims who fell from exhaustion or wounds to be carried to the ships and thus saved from death at the hands of Saladin.

When the exhausted Crusaders reached the plain of Arsur, Saladin, with a vast host of Saracens, hemmed in and attacked the Christian army. Never was there a more terrible battle. All day it raged, so furiously that the old chronicler confesses that "in the stress and bitter peril of that day, there was not one who did not wish himself safe at home with his pilgrimage finished." At one time the Hospitallers who were defending the rear, and who had been forbidden by Richard to charge the enemy, were so harassed by the Turks that they sent and besought the king's permission to attack the Saracens. But he forbade the move, commanding them to close their lines and wait in patience. Finally these tormented knights, stuck full of arrows, beaten with mallets, pierced by lances, crushed by maces, became frenzied with rage and shame at their inaction. They cried aloud, "Alas! we shall be convicted of cowardly sloth and disgraced forevermore!" Then, suddenly, exasperated beyond endurance, they faced about, and with a loud shout, "Holy Sepulchre aid us!" charged furiously into the midst of the infidels. Hundreds they slew, but their disobedient act threw the entire army into confusion.

Coeur-de-Lion, seeing this, put spurs to Favelle and galloped into the ranks of the Hospitallers. Then he bore down upon the Turks, "thundering against them, and mightily astonishing them by the blows that he dealt." Right and left they fell. Pressing on furiously and alone, Richard cut a wide path for himself through the Turkish ranks, brandishing his sword and mowing them down like grass before the sickle. For half a mile the ground was strewn with the bodies of those who dared to oppose the irresistible warrior. At last the terrified Turks fled in every direction before the attack of Richard. In vain Saladin strove to rally the Saracens. In vain his brazen kettle-drums and trumpets called to the flying infidels. The battle was lost, and the defeated sultan sadly retreated before the exultant Christians.

After this famous victory, Richard marched to Jaffa, where the army encamped in a fair olive orchard, and there abode some time in peace and plenty. Richard sailed to Acre, where he stirred up slothful pilgrims and entreated them to join his army at Jaffa for the march to Jerusalem. On his return, he brought with him Queen Berengaria and Joan. While waiting for recruits to the army, Richard occupied his time in excursions around Jaffa, and met with many romantic adventures.

One day he rode out with his falcons and a few knights to hunt, and also to spy on the Turks. When tired out by the chase, he lay down in the shade and fell asleep. Some Turks, hearing that he was thus off guard, rode swiftly up, hoping to take the dreaded king prisoner. Richard and his knights, roused by the noise of the hoof-beats, had barely time to mount their horses when the Turks were upon them. Coeur-de-Lion and his comrades met the attack fiercely; and the Turks, making a pretence of flight, drew the little band into an ambush, where it was surrounded by a great number of the infidels. Richard, in spite of his prowess, would certainly have been taken prisoner, had not one of his comrades, William de Preaux, called out, "I am the king; save my life!" The Saracens, knowing no better, quickly seized the generous knight and galloped off, thinking they had captured King Richard. The king, thus saved, returned to his camp, where he found the army in great distress over his reported capture.

Every effort was made to rescue William de Preaux, but in vain, and there was universal sorrow for the knight who had purchased the safety of the king by the sacrifice of his own freedom and the risk of his own life. "O fealty worthy of all renown! O rare devotion! that a man should willingly subject himself to danger to save another!" exclaims the chronicler. Surely there must have been much that was fine and lovable in the character of a king who called forth such rare devotion in a follower,—one who was not a vassal of his own.

As soon as possible, the grateful Richard ransomed his friend by exchanging ten noble Turkish captives for the brave French knight.

The king's friends now tried to persuade him to be more prudent and not to expose himself so rashly to danger. But Coeur-de-Lion delighted in danger, rejoiced to be first in onset and last in retreat. He loved to make the most perilous sallies against the Turks with but a few of his followers, and whether "by reason of his valor or the divine aid," he usually succeeded in capturing or slaying the infidels.

Meanwhile Richard was in communication with Saladin, trying to persuade the sultan to deliver Jerusalem to the Christians. Saladin steadfastly refused to surrender the city, but the two kings became friendly, and frequently sent each other rich gifts. Though they had a sincere admiration for each other, strange to relate, these warring kings never met. Though often opposed in battle, a meeting did not take place on any field; perhaps because Saladin, though personally brave, did not consider it the province of a king to fight in person, as did Richard. This Saracen sultan was a wise, just, and humane ruler,—a most admirable character, and much loved throughout his vast empire, an empire stretching from the Nile to the Tigris.

His brother Saphadin (Saf-ad-Din), a famous warrior, came often to visit Richard, who became very fond of him. The English king proposed to Saladin that Saphadin should marry Queen Joan, and the two be made sovereigns of Jerusalem. But this projected union of heathen and Christian was detestable to both nations, and the plan served only to bring reproach on Richard, who was much blamed for his friendly dealings with the unbelievers. All negotiations with Saladin came to nothing, and Richard finally marched on toward Jerusalem, which had meanwhile been strongly fortified by the sultan. When the army had reached Beit-Nuba, about twelve miles from the Holy City, a council of the chief men decided that it would be neither prudent to besiege Jerusalem at that time nor possible to take it. The army was smitten with grief at this decision, and it was a sad host that marched back to Ascalon.

This city had been destroyed by Saladin, and the English king thought it necessary to rebuild the town as a base of supplies for his army when the siege of Jerusalem should be undertaken. Richard and his nobles worked with their own hands at rebuilding the walls. But many of the French, unwilling to labor thus in menial fashion, left the army and went off to Acre. Leopold, Archduke of Austria, refused to join in the labor, and when reproached by Richard, replied sulkily, "I am not the son of a mason." Richard, justly incensed, abused him in no gentle terms, and even went so far as to strike the titled shirker. Whereupon the archduke straightway left the camp and hied him back to his own country.

Other bitter disputes broke out among the chiefs, and actual fighting took place between the troops of different countries. Conrade of Montferrat and Richard fell out again, and the marquis left the camp and entered into a secret treaty with Saladin, who agreed to aid him in his schemes of conquest.

Now, Richard, hearing that his brother John was conspiring against him, thought at first that he must return to England. It was necessary to have a leader in Richard's stead, and the council of chiefs elected Conrade to be chief of the armies, and also declared him King of Jerusalem. Richard consented to this choice, though he had no love for Conrade. But shortly afterwards, ere the coronation could take place, the marquis was murdered in the streets of Tyre. It is most probable that he fell a victim to the hatred of "The Old Man of the Mountains." This mysterious and dreaded personage was Sinan, the chief of a strange and fanatical sect of robbers and murderers, called the Ismaelians. He had many castles and strongholds in the mountains of Syria, and his very name struck terror to the hearts of its inhabitants. For this Sinan held despotic rule over his followers, and at his slightest word they were ready to kill themselves or any one else. He was accustomed to send these deluded disciples of his to assassinate any person who displeased him, promising paradise to the murderers in reward for their deed.

This Sinan sent two of the assassins to murder Conrade, who had seized goods from one of his followers. But some of the friends of the marquis accused Richard of the infamous deed,—as if the bold King of England would have stooped to rid himself of an enemy in that cowardly way. The suspicion, though without any foundation, strengthened the enmity that many of the chiefs felt for the English king, because of his haughtiness.

When at last Richard had led them within a few leagues of Jerusalem the second time, disputes arose about the advisability of then attacking the Holy City. Many of the princes did not wish Richard to have the glory of the conquest. Finally, the council of twenty knights, to which the matter was referred, decided that the siege should not be attempted at that time. So the order was given to retreat. It was sadly obeyed by the soldiers, who groaned and wept at giving up their cherished hopes of visiting the Holy Sepulchre.

One of these pilgrims, while the army was near Jerusalem, reached the summit of a hill, and called to Richard in much excitement, "Sire, sire, come hither and I will show you Jerusalem!" But the king, casting his coat-of-arms before his eyes, wept as he cried out, "Fair Lord God, I pray Thee not to let me see Thy Holy City, if so be that I may not deliver it out of the hands of Thine enemies."

As sadly grieved as their king at thus leaving the Holy City in infidel hands, the army marched despondently back to Jaffa, and thence to Acre, the French and English mutually accusing each other of having been the cause of the failure to take Jerusalem. The Duke of Burgundy vented his spite by composing a scurrilous song about Richard, which was sung in the French camp. The King of England, much annoyed, revenged himself in a similar manner by writing a few stinging lines, in which he answered these "trumped-up scandals with a few plain truths" about the duke and his other enemies. The singing of these princely satires did not add to the harmony of the camp.

When Richard reached Acre, he began to make preparations to return to England, for John was again conspiring to seize the throne. As the king was about to embark, envoys came in great haste, and besought him to come to the relief of Jaffa. They related that the town had been taken by Saladin, and that only the citadel yet held out. The king cut short the entreaties of the messenger by exclaiming, "God yet lives, and with His guidance I will set out to do what I can."

The French refused to go with him, but some noble knights started to the rescue by land, while the king and a few chosen comrades set out by sea. When the galleys reached Jaffa, the Turks, by thousands, swarmed to the shore, ready to destroy all who should attempt to land. The king's friends said to him, "It will be vain to attempt a landing in the face of so many enemies." But when a fugitive priest, leaping from the wall, swam to the galley and told Richard that some of his fellow-Christians were still alive and holding the citadel, Coeur-de-Lion exclaimed,—

"Then, even though it please God, in whose service I come hither, that we should die here with our brethren, let him perish who will not go forward with me." So saying, the king, with a shout of "Saint George! Saint George!" leaped from his red galley into the water, with shield hung round his neck and huge battle-axe in hand. Unheeding the countless darts of the enemy, he gained the beach, followed by a few faithful knights. There the redoubtable Richard actually put to flight the thousands of Turks, dashed into the town, rescued the citadel, and drove every infidel out of the gates of Jaffa.

The story seems incredible, but it is true.

Next day the generous Saladin, hearing that Richard had no horse, exclaimed, "It is a disgrace that so great a king should lack a steed!" So he sent one of his men with a charger to Richard. The king accepted the gift and bade one of his men mount the beautiful Arabian. Immediately the spirited steed took the bit between its teeth and galloped back to the Saracen camp. "Right shamefaced was Saladin when the horse returned," for he knew that some would suspect him of trying to entrap Richard. He sent another horse to the king, and many apologies for the bad behavior of the first. Richard, incapable of treachery himself, had no suspicion of Saladin's good faith. He thanked the messenger, and to show his confidence in the sultan, at once mounted and rode the horse.

A few days afterwards, a large body of Turks unexpectedly attacked Richard, who was encamped outside the walls of Jaffa with only fifteen knights and a few thousand foot-soldiers. It was early morning, and a soldier flew to Richard's tent, crying, "O king, we are dead men!"

"Silence," ordered the suddenly aroused king, "or I will kill you!" Richard and his knights, throwing on their armor, mounted their horses amid a shower of arrows from the Saracens. Hurriedly the king posted his men to receive the attack. While doing this, he exhorted them to courage with many brave words.

"Hold out stubbornly," he cried. "It is the duty of brave men to triumph bravely or to die gloriously! Death threatens, but if it come, let us receive martyrdom with a thankful mind. But before we die we will take vengeance, and yield God thanks for granting us the martyr's death! This is the true reward of our toils,—the end at once of life and battles!"

Then this heroic Richard, grasping his lance, rode alone across the whole front of the enemies' lines, defying them to combat; and not one dared to do battle with him single-handed. But they set his armor as thick with javelins as "a hedgehog with bristles," and his horse was soon covered with innumerable arrows sticking to its harness. The Turks, charging the little band of Christians, fought with desperate bravery. They made many attempts to slay Richard, ever pressing on by scores toward his lion-emblazoned banner. But the "incredible valor" and strength of the king not only preserved his own life, but won the battle. After hours of conflict, Richard put the Turks to flight.

Now, these Saracens had boasted to Saladin that they would bring him the captured King of England. After the battle, when they had fled before Richard, the sultan mockingly inquired of these warriors,—

"Where are those who are bringing me Melek (King) Richard as my prisoner? Who was first to seize him? Where is he, I say, and why is he not brought before me?"

The shamefaced Turks were silent at this mockery, until one plucked up the courage to reply thus:—

"Know, O king, for a surety, that this Melek of whom you speak is not like other men. Truly, we tried hard to capture him, but all in vain, for no one can bear the brunt of his sword unharmed; his onset is terrible, and it is death to encounter him. His deeds are more than human."

Though unharmed in this battle, as in so many others, the heroic Richard was soon after laid low by an attack of fever. He grew steadily worse, and despairing of recovery in the unwholesome air of Jaffa, determined to leave the city. But the other chiefs refused to try to hold the town if he should depart. So Richard, not able to fight, was compelled to make a truce of three years with Saladin. The conditions were that Ascalon should be abandoned, and Jaffa remain in the possession of the Christians, who were also to be allowed free access to Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre without payment, and without hindrance from the infidels.

When this treaty had been concluded, and Richard had recovered, he held a magnificent tournament at Acre, in celebration of peace. This festival was attended by many Turks, as well as by Christian knights.

His preparations having been completed, Richard set sail from Acre in October, 1192, having sent the queens ahead in another vessel. As the shore of Palestine faded from his sight, Richard prayed: "O Holy Land, to God I commend thee. May He of his mercy only grant me such space of life that by His good-will I may yet bring thee aid. For it is my hope and intention to bring thee aid at some future day!"

Long did the memory of the king thus bidding farewell to the Holy Land linger in the memory of its people. A hundred years afterwards, the Saracen mother frightened her child into silence by the words, "Hush, King Richard is coming!" And if a horse started aside, the rider would cry, "What! is the King of England in front of thee?"

Perils of battle and sickness had been escaped, but greater dangers were in store for the returning Crusader. After being tempest-tossed for weeks, the vessel of Richard was wrecked on the Adriatic coast. Knowing that the Archduke of Austria had good reason to hate him, Richard tried to make his way through that country in the disguise of a Templar.

After many adventures, he stopped at an inn near Vienna, and sent his only attendant, a young boy, to the market to buy provisions. The youth, in paying, displayed so much money and bore himself so haughtily that he was arrested. But on telling the magistrate that he was the servant of a rich merchant, who would not arrive in the city until three days later, the boy was set free. Returning secretly to the king's retreat, the youth told of his misadventure, and begged the king to flee. But the rash Richard, weary and exhausted, decided to risk remaining a few days longer.

The lad, while visiting the market again, was imprudent enough to carry under his belt the fine embroidered gloves of his master. Knowing these gloves could not belong to a merchant, the suspicious magistrates seized the boy again, and after torturing him, threatened to cut out his tongue unless he revealed his master's name. On learning the truth from the frightened lad, they informed the archduke, who sent soldiers to surround the inn. When the troopers questioned the landlord, he said:—

"There is no one here except a poor Templar, who is now in the kitchen turning the spit for the cook." Going into the kitchen, the soldiers saw the Templar sitting before the fire, industriously turning a fowl on the spit. But one of the soldiers who had been in the Holy Land knew Richard, and he shouted, "That is the king; seize him!" Richard sprang up, and using the spit for a weapon, defended himself valiantly; but he was overcome by numbers, and carried prisoner to the castle of Tyernstern. There for months he was kept a close prisoner, loaded with chains. The archduke then gave him up to the German emperor, who imprisoned him at Trifels.

For a long time no one except his jailers knew where the King of England was. Berengaria, who had seen a jeweled belt of Richard's on sale at Rome, knew that some misfortune had happened to him, and she and his mother, Eleanor, were wild with anxiety.



Finally, Blondel de Nesle, the minstrel friend, who had been with Richard on the Crusade, journeyed through Germany, looking for his lost king. One day, beneath the walls of a castle where he had heard that a prisoner of rank was held captive, Blondel halted and sang a verse of a song that he and Richard had composed together:—

"Your beauty, ladye faire, None views without delight, But still so cold an air No passion can excite; Yet this I patient see, While all are shunned like me."

Instantly the king's well-known voice took up the strain and sang the next stanza:—

"No nymph my heart can wound If favor she divide And smile on all around, Unwilling to decide; I'd rather hatred bear, Than love with others share!"

Then the overjoyed Blondel hastened back to England, and told the queen and people of Richard's sad plight and his place of imprisonment.

Berengaria and Eleanor immediately besought the emperor to release Richard, and also implored the intercession of the Pope and the sovereigns of Europe. The emperor was at last compelled to bring Richard before the council of the empire. To these princes and lords he accused the king of many crimes, among them the murder of Conrade. Richard defended himself with so much force and eloquence that these groundless charges were dropped; but the emperor still refused to liberate his prisoner, except upon payment of a ransom of one hundred and fifty thousand marks,—nearly a million dollars.

The people of England, who loved their heroic king, gladly raised this large sum; and in 1194, Eleanor journeyed to Germany, paid the ransom, and had the happiness of seeing her son set at liberty. She accompanied her beloved Richard to England, where he was received most joyfully. After being crowned again in Westminster, the king made a royal progress through the kingdom. Those nobles who had joined in the rebellion of John were called to account; but on profession of repentance, all were generously pardoned. Richard then set out for Normandy to subdue John, who had fled to that country on receiving King Philip's warning message after Richard's release, "Look to yourself; the Devil is unchained."

But the craven John dared not battle against Coeur-de-Lion. He came to meet Richard, and, falling at his feet, implored pardon. The king, stretching out his hand to the penitent, said,—

"Arise, John, I forgive thee; and may I forget thy misdeeds as quickly as thou wilt my pardon."

Now, Richard fell in with evil companions in Anjou and lived a very dissipated life. But at length some good priests moved him to repentance, and he forsook his evil ways and joined his good Queen Berengaria, whom he had not seen since his release, though she was at Poictiers. Berengaria readily forgave his neglect, and, if we may believe a friendly chronicler, Richard was ever afterwards faithful and kind to her.

The ill-will that had always existed between Richard and the King of France now led to constant petty wars between them. To secure his Norman province, Richard built on its border a splendid fortress, which he called his Chateau Gaillard,—"Saucy Castle." Amazed and enraged at the wonderful strength of this stronghold, perched on a rocky mount five hundred feet high, the French king exclaimed,—

"I would take it if its walls were of iron!"

Richard, with all of his old insolence, retorted, "And I would hold it, were its walls of butter!"

But the final struggle that both kings were planning never took place.

Richard, who was in much need of money for his army, heard that a vassal of his had found a hidden treasure of great value, including twelve gold knights seated around a golden table. This Vidomar, Lord of Chaluz, when Richard demanded that, according to law, he share the treasure with his lord the king, replied that nothing had been found except a pot of ancient coins. The king did not believe this story, and set siege to the castle of Chaluz, determined to obtain the golden knights. There Richard was struck down by an arrow from the bow of Bertrand de Gourdan, a nobleman of Poictiers. The wound proved to be a mortal one. The king, when assured that he was dying, sent for Bertrand, for the castle had meanwhile been taken and the knight captured.

"Wretch," said the dying king, "what have I done to thee that thou shouldst attempt my life?"

"Thou hast had my father and two brothers put to death, and hast threatened to slay me," replied the undaunted youth. The prostrate king, looking at him in silence a moment, said,—

"I forgive thee." Then turning to his captain, Richard added, "Let his chains be removed, set him free, and give him a hundred shillings."

This act of noble forgiveness was the last deed of the erring but great-hearted king.

The death so often defied on the battlefield, Richard met calmly, with the courage that had never failed him in life,—that splendid courage which won for him the heroic title of Lionheart.



RICHARD'S LAMENT

No captive knight, whom chains confine, Can tell his fate and not repine; Yet with a song he cheers the gloom That hangs around his living tomb. Shame to his friends!—the king remains Two years unransomed and in chains.

Now let them know, my brave barons, My English, Normans, and Gascons, Not one liege-man so poor have I, That I would not his freedom buy. I'll not reproach their noble line, Though chains and dungeon still are mine.

The dead,—nor friends nor kin have they! Nor friends nor kin my ransom pay! My wrongs afflict me—yet far more For faithless friends my heart is sore. Oh, what a blot upon their name, If I should perish thus in shame!

Nor is it strange I suffer pain When sacred oaths are thus made vain, And when the king with bloody hands Spreads war and pillage through my lands. One only solace now remains— I soon shall burst these servile chains.

Ye troubadours and friends of mine, Brave Chail and noble Pensauvine, Go tell my rivals, in your song, This heart hath never done them wrong. He infamy—not glory—gains, Who strikes a monarch in his chains!

Written by Richard I. while prisoner in Germany.

(From SPOFFORD'S Library of Historic Character and Famous Events.)



THE LAST CRUSADER

Slowly The Last Crusader eyed The towers, the mount, the stream, the plain, And thought of those whose blood had dyed The earth with crimson streams in vain!

He thought of that sublime array, The hosts, that over land and deep The hermit marshall'd on their way, To see those towers, and halt to weep!

Resign'd the loved, familiar lands, O'er burning wastes the cross to bear, And rescue from the Paynim's hands No empire save a sepulchre!

And vain the hope, and vain the loss, And vain the famine and the strife; In vain the faith that bore the cross, The valour prodigal of life.

And vain was Richard's lion-soul, And guileless Godfrey's patient mind— Like waves on shore, they reach'd the goal, To die, and leave no trace behind!

"O God!" The Last Crusader cried, "And art Thou careless of Thine own? For us Thy Son in Salem died, And Salem is the scoffer's throne!

"And shall we leave, from age to age, To godless hands the holy tomb? Against Thy saints the heathen rage— Launch forth Thy lightnings, and consume!"

Swift as he spoke, before his sight A form flashed, white-robed, from above; All Heaven was in those looks of light, But Heaven, whose native air is love.

"Alas!" the solemn vision said, "Thy God is of the shield and spear— To bless the quick and raise the dead, The Saviour-God descended here!

"Ah! know'st thou not the very name Of Salem bids thy carnage cease— A symbol in itself to claim God's people to a house of peace!

"Ask not the Father to reward The hearts that seek, through blood, the Son; O warrior! never by the sword The Saviour's Holy Land is won."

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON

Deep is the bliss of the belted knight, When he kisses at dawn the silken glove, And goes, in his glittering armour dight, To shiver a lance for his ladye-love!

Lightly he couches the beaming spear; His mistress sits with her maidens by, Watching the speed of his swift career With a whispered prayer, and a murmured sigh.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED



THE CHEVALIER BAYARD

"The Adopted Son of Dame Courtesy" and "Le Chevalier sans Peur et sans Reproche."

"Bayard was perhaps the only hero of the middle ages who deserved the unmingled praise and admiration bestowed upon him. Simple, modest, a sterling friend and tender lover, pious, humane, and magnanimous, he held together in rare symmetrical union the whole circle of the virtues."



THE CHEVALIER BAYARD

PIERRE BAYARD DE TERRAIL (1476-1523 A. D.)

In the reign of Louis XI. there was born in southern France a little dark-eyed boy who was destined to be known in all subsequent ages and in all climes as "the knight without fear and without reproach." Pierre Bayard de Terrail was his real name, but in song and story and history we know him as "The Chevalier Bayard."

Bayard was of gentle birth, and had the good fortune to be descended from a long line of valiant gentlemen who ever held king and country dearer than self, and honor a thing to die for. He also had a good and pious mother. If to his knightly forefathers he owed his fearlessness, it is an everlasting monument to his mother's influence that he lived without reproach.

He first saw the light in the beautiful Chateau Bayard, in Dauphiny. Here he spent his boyhood much as other little boys of his time spent theirs, and soon developed into a sturdy youth.

When Bayard attained his fourteenth year, his father, then nearing death, called his children around him, and asked each what profession he wished to choose. The eldest boy spoke first, and said that he preferred to remain on his father's estates, leading the life of a quiet country gentleman. But the young Pierre was more ambitious. When it came his turn to speak, he told his father that there was nothing he so much desired as to become a soldier and a knight, and to win glory and honor to the name already made illustrious by his noble ancestors.

His father was much pleased with Pierre's choice, and answered,—

"My son, thou art already very like thy noble grandfather, and I am rejoiced that thou shouldst choose to follow in his footsteps. I shall try immediately to place thee as page in the house of some prince, where thou canst be in training for knighthood."

The father lost no time in fulfilling his promise. The very next day he sent for his brother-in-law, the Bishop of Grenoble, to ask his advice about Pierre.

The good bishop came, attended by many noble knights, and a great banquet was prepared in his honor.

Now, in days of chivalry, a boy's dress and manners were considered of no slight importance. Indeed, most of his early training was especially designed to give him ease and grace in the company of great ladies and gentlemen. As may be easily imagined, the little Pierre's education had not been neglected. He did not fail to array himself in a manner befitting the occasion; and at the banquet he served his father's guests with so much modesty and grace that he drew forth praise from all the company.

The gratified father then told them of Pierre's ambition to become a knight, and asked their advice about his education.

Each gave his friendly counsel, and then the Bishop of Grenoble said,—

"Brother, the good Duke of Savoy, who hath ever been friendly to our house, will be at Chambery to-morrow; and if it please thee, I will ride thither with my nephew and present him as page to his Grace. I will also take pleasure in equipping the lad properly, so be at no expense."

Amid the applause of the company, Aymond Terrail presented his son to the good bishop, and said with tears in his eyes,—

"I give him into thy hands, and pray God that wherever thou place him, he may do thee honor."

The bishop, true to his promise, provided his nephew with an outfit, and gave him a well-caparisoned horse. Then they made ready to go to Chambery to meet the Duke of Savoy.

It was with no little interest that the bishop and his friends watched the young page mount his new steed, for it was a mettlesome one, and used only to a man's weight. When Pierre bounded into the saddle, the horse reared and plunged; but the boy kept his seat, and soon, with the aid of bit and spur, had the animal under complete control. The guests praised him greatly, and his father asked him if he felt no fear.

"I hope," answered the young Pierre, "by God's help, to manage my horse among the enemies of the prince I am going to serve."

Then he bade farewell to father and mother and to home and childhood, and went forth to enter upon a chivalric career.

Arrived at Chambery, the bishop and his company were graciously received by the Duke of Savoy. The duke maintained a brilliant court, and was always the faithful ally of France. He invited the uncle and nephew to dine with him, and again Pierre's graceful manners commended him to the notice of his elders. The duke was gracious enough to notice him especially, and asked who the boy was.

"Sir," said the bishop, "it is my nephew, Pierre de Terrail, whom I have brought to present to thee if thou shouldst like to have his services."

"I accept him at once," answered the duke. "I should indeed be hard to please if I declined such a gift."

So it was that Pierre became attached to the household of Savoy. He remained in the duke's service for some time, and easily surpassed his fellow pages in all the knightly exercises in which they were being trained. Yet with all his prowess he was so modest and so manly that he excited no envy among his companions, and the duke and duchess came to love him as if he were their own son.

Pierre's chivalric traits won to him the hearts of his fellows and his patrons; but it was perhaps his personal beauty and his charm of manner that went furthest toward winning him yet another love—a love that he valued more than all others. There was in the train of the good duchess a little maid of honor, whose heart soon went out to the handsome youth. At service in the same palace, the two saw much of each other, and soon Pierre had no eyes for any maid but this one.

The little coquette did not fail to make Pierre quite miserable by repelling his attentions for a time, when she saw that she had won him; but at length, one day, while not in waiting on her mistress, she was captured by the little page, and made to listen to the story of his love.

"I am going to make myself a great knight some day," he declared with the pride and faith of youth, "and then I am coming back for thee, and we shall be married."

"Alas," cried the damsel, now quite as earnest as he, "thou art of an illustrious house, and canst marry some great lady who can advance thee in the world. I am but a poor maid, and if I accept thy love, I destroy thy hopes."

"What care I for that?" cried the impatient lover. "The question is, dost thou love me."

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then I shall not give thee up," he declared, "and I shall tell the duchess all about it."

The maid was more worldly wise than he, however, and insisted that for the time they should be only friends. Shortly after this a change took place in Pierre's affairs,—a change which was to separate him for years from the maid he loved.

The young page had been with the house of Savoy only six months when it pleased the duke to pay a visit to King Charles VIII. of France. The king had moved his court to Lyons—a beautiful city in southeastern France—and was holding high revel there. When Charles heard of the approach of his friend and ally, the Duke of Savoy, he sent the Count of Ligny with a number of attendants to meet him. These met the duke at a place about two leagues from Lyons, and welcomed him heartily in the name of the King of France.

Now Pierre was in close attendance on his master, and the Count of Ligny at once noticed him and remarked to the duke on his good horsemanship.

The duke, much pleased, explained who the boy was, and then called out to him,—

"Spur, Bayard, spur!"

Without waiting for explanations, Bayard obeyed his master, returning from his run with his horse completely under control. Afterwards, Pierre's fine horsemanship won for him the nickname "Piquet"—a spur.

The count was surprised and charmed, and told the duke that the King of France would be glad to have the boy in his service.

Through the influence of Ligny, the youth was brought to the notice of King Charles; and the king was so charmed with his manners and his horsemanship that he at once persuaded the Duke of Savoy to permit the boy to be transferred to the royal service.

The good duke granted the king's request, for he knew it would be a great advancement for the lad; and Pierre was placed under the Count of Ligny for training.

Though Pierre loved the Duke of Savoy, he was very glad of this change in his own fortunes; for he had all the romantic devotion to king and country that chivalry was wont to implant in the hearts of men, and he was first, last, and always a true Frenchman.

The next several years of Pierre's life were spent in service as page to Ligny; after which the count made him a man-at-arms in his own company and a gentleman of his household. This meant that the page, Pierre, had become a knight, and was thenceforth to be known as "the Chevalier Bayard."

Bayard's first exploit as a knight was to challenge and meet in tournament the invincible Lord of Vaudray. The young chevalier was then only seventeen years of age, and was weak and delicate in appearance, while his opponent was reckoned one of the most powerful knights of the time.

When the combatants entered the lists, it was easy to be seen that the yellow-haired, black-eyed knight of seventeen was the one on whom every lady's glance was bent. Men watched him too, but not on account of his good looks; they had laughed at him scornfully when he presumed to strike in challenge the shield of the celebrated Vaudray, and they now looked to see him ignobly defeated.

To the astonishment of all, however, Bayard won the day. The men said that he was too bold for one so young; but "the ladies praised him enthusiastically," and the king exclaimed to Ligny,—

"By my faith, cousin, he hath given us to-day a foretaste of what he will be as a man!"

The next several years of the young knight's life were spent in training for the stern services of war. He failed in nothing that he conceived it his duty to perform, and he neglected nothing that he felt would tend to his own development, for he bore always in his heart the admonition of the king he so reverenced: "Piquet, my friend, may God develop in thee that fearless manhood which thy noble youth so graciously promises."

At this time Italy was not under one government, but was separated into six great divisions—the Duchy of Milan, the Kingdom of Naples, the Kingdom of Piedmont, the Republics of Venice and Florence, and the Papal States. There were also several petty states which were always more or less dependent on some one of the greater powers. Unfortunately for themselves, there was little sympathy or unity among the Italian States; and the nations around were constantly stirring up strife between them, or invading the peninsula for the sake of conquest. So it was that for a long time Italy was the field on which the contests of Europe were waged.

It was during this period—when the French, the Spanish, the Germans, and the Italian States were variously pitted against one another, and variously allied—that Bayard made his name forever an emblem of chivalry. In those days "king" stood for "country" in the mind of the loyal knight; and in following his king on whatever fantastic campaign, Bayard believed that he was only performing his sacred duty to his beloved France.

He served successively under three sovereigns—Charles VIII., Louis XII., and Francis I.,—and distinguished himself in Italy, Spain, and France, holding his own against Italian, Spaniard, German, and Briton alike.

"I hope one day to be worthy the name of soldier," was the chevalier's modest, yet truly exalted, ambition; and he proved unquestionably his right to the title in his very first campaign. Bayard's first service was with Charles VIII., when that king invaded Italy and conquered the Kingdom of Naples.

The young chevalier, though then only eighteen years of age, and slender and boyish in appearance, soon became the admiration of even old and experienced warriors. Wherever there was hottest fighting—wherever there was greatest danger—there was this black-eyed, fair-haired youth. And there was hardly an engagement with the enemy which was not signalized by some brilliant feat of the young knight's.

After conquering the Kingdom of Naples and leaving there the larger part of the French army to maintain his sovereignty, King Charles returned to France at the head of only a small force. But his exodus from Italy was not so easy as his invasion into that country had been. The Pope, the Doge of Venice, the Duke of Milan, and other Italian princes, had formed a league against the ambitious Charles, and had gathered a large army in northern Italy to cut off his return to France.

As King Charles advanced to within a few miles of Fornovo, the allies unexpectedly descended on him with a force six times as great as his own, and a bloody battle ensued. The plan of the allies was to destroy the French army and take King Charles prisoner. So anxious were they to make the king their captive that they offered a prize of a hundred thousand ducats to the man who would bring him, dead or alive, to their camp.

But the annihilation of the French army and the capture of King Charles were not such light tasks as the allies had expected. The little band met their all but overwhelming onset with a stubborn resistance that was wonderful to behold. By charge and counter-charge the field was contested, and victory still hung in the balance when suddenly out of the French ranks rode a fair-haired boy knight, calling on his company to follow him. Instantly his men caught the infection of his wild daring, and in the face of almost certain death they swept to the charge with the dashing Bayard.

"A greyhound for attack, and a wild boar in defence," Bayard fell upon the enemies of his king with such splendid courage that none whom he met could withstand his prowess.

Two horses were killed under him, but he mounted a third, and, dashing alone into the thickest of the fight, captured an ensign from fifty men-at-arms.

Thanks to the valor of such knights as Bayard, the French gained a signal victory, laying low in the dust full as many men as King Charles had led to Fornovo.

After several more encounters with the allies, in which Bayard won added laurels, the king led his much-diminished army back to France.

Shortly after this campaign Charles VIII. died, and was succeeded on the throne by Louis XII.

The new king busied himself with the internal affairs of state; and Bayard, whose business was that of a soldier merely, was for awhile left free to do as he chose. He accordingly occupied the time in visiting friends in Savoy. The good Duke of Savoy was now dead; but the duchess received the chevalier at her court with her oldtime friendliness.

Here for a second time Bayard met the love of his boyhood. But alas for him! she had become the wife of the Lord of Fluxas.

When the two met, the lady received Bayard with every sign of friendship. She praised him greatly for the noble part he had borne in the king's service—for all France had heard of the chevalier's great deeds in Italy—and then they talked over their youthful love-affair.

In the course of his stay, the Lady Fluxas asked Bayard to give a tournament, for she very much wished to see him engage in some of the knightly exercises in which he had become distinguished.

The chevalier was delighted to comply with her request, and promised that the tournament should be arranged to take place in a very short while; then, kissing the hand of his fair sponsor, he asked for one of her sleeves. When the lady gave him the favor he treasured it carefully, intending that it should be the victor's prize in the coming joust.

The tournament was held in good time, some fifteen gallant gentlemen taking part and acquitting themselves much to the satisfaction of the lady for whose amusement the entertainment had been devised.

When the trial at arms was ended, the duchess bade the Lord of Fluxas invite the combatants and the judges and a number of ladies to sup with her. According to her wishes, the judges reserved their decision until the guests were gathered about the table that evening.

As every one expected, the prize was awarded to Bayard. The chevalier blushed and declined to take it, saying further that the lady who had provided the sleeve should be the one to bestow it.

As the giver of the tournament, Bayard was, in a sense, the host of those who accepted the challenge; and it was very like his extreme courteousness to decline to carry off the prize from them, however much he may have wished in his heart to possess this particular lady's favor.

Lady Fluxas, thus called upon to make the decision, paused a moment, then said she would keep the sleeve herself "for the sake of the victor." She then gave a beautiful ruby pendant to the Lord of Mondragon, who, next to Bayard, had been the most successful in the combat.

However much the chevalier's heart may have inclined him to linger near the home of the lady he still loved, his stern sense of duty soon summoned him away. News had come to King Louis that the people of Milan, who owed fealty to the French king, had revolted, and made Ludovic Sforza their duke.

On hearing this, the king at once despatched the Count of Ligny with a large force to besiege the disloyal city. Bayard, as a member of Ligny's company, went of course with his commander.

The French had been encamped before Milan for some time, when one day Bayard learned from a spy that three hundred horse of the Milanese were at the little town of Binasco; and, always on the lookout for a skirmish with the enemy, he persuaded about fifty of his companions to join him in a descent upon that town. They set off early the next morning, but the Milanese learned of the intended surprise, and were ready for them.

With the cry, "France! France!" the chevalier and his companions flung themselves upon the whole three hundred; but the Milanese were no cowards, and for one hour they withstood even the firebrand impetuosity of Bayard himself. They were not many who could stand so long before Bayard. At length the knight, impatient at this stubborn resistance, cried out to his fellows—

"What, my comrades! shall we let these few keep us fighting all day? Courage! Let us multiply our strokes and give wings to their feet!"

At the sound of his deep voice the French rushed to the attack again, and with such enthusiasm that the enemy wavered—fell back—then fled, pell-mell, toward Milan. The victors followed in hot pursuit, with the peerless knight far in the lead.

The fugitives reached Milan scarcely ahead of their pursuers, and thundered in through the gate. One of the leaders of the French, seeing the danger into which he and his companions were rushing, cried out just in time,—

"Turn, men-at-arms, turn!"

The order was obeyed by all except Bayard, who had ears for nothing but his own battle-cry, and eyes only for the enemy. Right into the heart of the city, nay, up to the very steps of the duke's palace, he chased the flying Milanese; then he suddenly found himself surrounded by an angry populace, who, when they saw the white crosses of France upon him, cried,—

"Seize him! Seize him!"

He was soon disarmed and taken prisoner by the commander he had just pursued from Binasco. When Cazache—for such was the Milanese captain's name—got his enemy thus in his power, he did not, as might be supposed, wreak any petty vengeance on the head of the chevalier. He treated Bayard as a soldier and a gentleman, and by so doing evinced a chivalrous spirit close akin to the chevalier's own.

Ludovic, Duke of Milan, hearing the uproar before the palace, asked the cause thereof, and was soon told that the Milanese at Binasco had been defeated, and that a young chevalier had pursued Cazache and his company to the very palace door.

"By my sword, but I'd like to see this daring Frenchman!" roared the duke. "Captain, fetch the prisoner hither."

Cazache obeyed in fear and trembling for his captive. The captain—a generous-hearted fellow—had conceived a deep admiration for Bayard, and he feared for the chevalier's head; for Duke Ludovic was of a most uncertain temperament.

When, however, he ushered the knight before the duke, Cazache realized that his fears were groundless. Instead of flying into a fury, as he too often did, Ludovic surveyed the handsome figure of the captive and said, not unkindly,

"My brave young gentleman, come hither and tell me what brought thee to Milan."

Bayard was used to surprises, and answered frankly—

"I came in the footsteps of some of thy men for a little adventure. I did not know that I was alone, for I thought my comrades were close behind me. They are wiser in the ways of war than I, or they too would have been captured. In the mean time, I thank God that I have fallen into such good hands; and I do assure thee that if anything could make captivity pleasant to me, it would be such treatment as I have received from this good captain."

The duke smiled kindly, and then asked him the number in the French army.

"Sir," replied the knight, truthfully, "there are not more than fourteen or fifteen hundred men-at-arms, and from sixteen to eighteen thousand foot-soldiers; but they are all picked men, and are resolved to win back the Duchy of Milan to the king, their master. As for thee, sir, let me warn thee that thou wilt be safer in Germany than in this city."

Instead of being incensed by Bayard's frankness, Ludovic answered him in the same friendly strain, and assured him that there was nothing he so much desired as an encounter between his own and the king's troops. Bayard replied that such an event would be a great pleasure to himself also, provided he were not in prison.

"Do not let that trouble thee," replied the duke, "for I intend to set thee free. If there is anything else thou desirest of me, thou hast only to ask it."

This unexpected kindness on the part of Ludovic took the knight completely by surprise. Up to that time he had stood before his enemy proud and erect; but when Ludovic announced his generous intention toward him, the young knight sank on his knee to thank him.

"Sir," said he, "the greatest favor thou canst grant me is to restore my arms and my horse, and allow me a guide to the French garrison." He paused a moment and then added earnestly, "Believe me, sir, I shall always be ready to serve thee, if I can do so in honor to my king and to my country." And after again thanking the duke for his generosity, the young knight rode away with the promised guide.

When Bayard arrived at the French camp, the Count of Ligny was astonished and overjoyed to see him, for all had heard of Bayard's solitary descent on Milan and his consequent capture.

"What, Piquet!" exclaimed the count, "thou out of prison! How didst thou pay thy ransom? I was about to send a herald to pay it, and bring thee back."

"Sir," replied the knight, "I thank thee most sincerely, but Ludovic Sforza hath spared thee the trouble, and in doing so, he hath proved himself a rival in courtesy and generosity even to thyself—he hath made me a present of my freedom, and provided me with a guide hither."

Milan afterwards fell into the hands of the king, but Bayard was not able to return the great kindness Ludovic had shown to him.

After conquering Milan, King Louis turned his attention to the Kingdom of Naples, which had, during the last days of Charles VIII., thrown off the yoke of France and raised a Spanish prince to the throne.

Bayard counted it great good fortune to be allowed to go on the expedition sent by the king into Naples; and there he performed such wonderful feats of arms that the Spanish allies of the Neapolitans declared him to be a devil instead of a man. It was, indeed, through no fault of Bayard's that the French ultimately lost Naples.

The fame of Bayard's exploits spread. The Pope, a bitter enemy to the King of France, sent for the chevalier, and tried to persuade him to renounce the service of King Louis for that of the States of the Church. In order to make his proposition exceedingly tempting, the Pontiff offered to load the knight with riches and honors, and make him Captain-General of the Church. To all this Bayard gave the simple, earnest answer,—

"I have but one master in heaven,—God,—and one upon earth,—the King of France."

Once, while the good Duke of Nemours commanded the French army in Italy, he and several of his officers had occasion to spend a few days in the little town of Carpi. While there, they were hospitably entertained by the Count of Carpi, who provided many amusements for them. For their diversion, the count one day caused an astrologer—a little withered black man—to appear at court, and read the future for the distinguished guests.

The astrologer came, and astonished all by the accuracy with which he related past events in their lives. Then he told them that on the next Good Friday or Easter Day the French and Spanish armies would come together in a battle which would be one of the bloodiest ever fought. He said that the victory would remain with the French, but that it would be bought with the best blood of France. And he said to Bayard, privately,

"Your prince"—meaning the Duke of Nemours—"seems very dear to you; be near him on the day of battle. I see that he is threatened with a sad fate."

Bayard had little faith in the seer's powers, and laughed when it came his turn to question the mystic; however, it was amusement for the company.

"My master," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "shall I ever be a man of consequence? And shall I become rich?"

The astrologer looked at him sharply and answered,

"Thou wilt be richer in noble qualities than ever French gentleman was before thee, but thou wilt have few of fortune's goods. Thou wilt serve yet another king of France, who will love and esteem thee much; but the envy of those about him will prevent his bestowing on thee the wealth and honors thou wilt so richly deserve."

"But," asked Bayard, "shall I escape from this bloody battle thou hast predicted?"

"Yes," answered the seer; "but twelve years hence thou wilt die in battle of an arquebuse-shot,—in no other way, for thy soldiers do so adore thee that they would die to the last man to save thee."

It chanced that in the fortunes of war the French once captured and held for a long time the beautiful Italian town of Brescia. This city was in time recaptured by the Venetians, to whom it had first belonged, and again possessed by the French,—albeit, at the cost of many valuable lives.

At this retaking of Brescia by the French, Bayard again distinguished himself. The first skirmish before the town was won by the chevalier, who was so eager to attack that he went into battle in his night-clothes.

When the time came for a general assault, the question arose as to whom should put himself in front, at the mercy of the enemy's arquebuses.

"I will," responded Bayard to the Duke of Nemours's question; "and I promise thee that the company I command will do good service to the king, our master."

This was no idle boast, for Bayard's company was composed of picked men, the greater number of whom had been commanders themselves, but who preferred the honor of serving under the noted chevalier to leading companies of their own.

So it was arranged that the chevalier and his company should open battle by storming the first fort that protected Brescia. A better selection could not have been made, for the very name of Bayard had become a terror to the enemies of France.

When the Venetian commander saw who was leading the assault, he cried out to encourage his men,—

"Hold fast, comrades! If this Bayard but be defeated, all the rest will be easy."

But Bayard was not defeated. The splendid charge of his company was met with a blinding storm of shot from the Venetian guns, but not a man gave back. Right up to the cannon they charged, shouting in the face of the fire—"France! France!"—but the cry was changed to "Bayard! Bayard!" as the chevalier leaped the ramparts, crying,

"Follow me!"

And they did follow.

Only for an instant Bayard's tall form was seen in the thick of his enemies, his black eyes blazing with the fire of battle. The next moment he fell, face downward, in the struggling mass, with a Venetian pike thrust through his thigh.

When word was carried to the Duke of Nemours that Bayard had fallen, he exclaimed,—

"Let us go, my friends and comrades, and avenge the death of the most accomplished knight that ever lived." And they swept forward with the brave duke, completing the victory that Bayard had so well begun. The Venetian loss in this battle exceeded twenty thousand, while the French loss was less than fifty men.

When the French occupied the town, they gave themselves over to all kinds of excesses, perpetrating atrocious cruelties on defenceless women and children, and pillaging convents and churches for their riches.

The soldiers in those days were, in the main, rough and brutal men; but there were always among them many knightly gentlemen, who never failed to use their utmost power to protect the defenceless. Such a gentleman was Bayard, and he was never known to allow cruelties where it was in his power to prevent them. But—alas for the wretched city—the knight without reproach was now helpless!

Having been mortally wounded, as all supposed, the chevalier was carried by two of his men to a large mansion within the town, that he might receive needed attention.

The Brescian citizen who owned the house had fled upon the entry of the French, leaving his wife and two beautiful daughters alone and unprotected.

Now when Bayard's men brought their wounded captain to the house, the lady herself opened the gate, and assisted the men in making the knight comfortable. Bayard's first order to the two soldiers was that they station themselves at the gate, and, on pain of death, admit no one save his own men.

"I am sure," he said, "that when they know I am lodged here, they will not force a passage."

When he had despatched his soldiers, the lady fell upon her knees at Bayard's feet and said—

"Noble lord, this house and all that it contains is thine by the laws of war; but I beseech thee, by the Holy Mother, to preserve the safety of myself and my daughters."

"Madam," answered the almost fainting chevalier, "I may not recover from the wound I have received, but as long as I live neither thou nor thy daughters shall sustain more injury than myself. I assure thee that no one shall enter the house contrary to thy wish; and for myself, I promise thee all respect and friendship. But fetch me help, I pray thee, and that quickly!"

The lady was much relieved by the knight's assuring words, and went herself, attended by one of his soldiers, and fetched a surgeon to him. When the Duke of Nemours learned where Bayard had been carried, and that he still lived, he sent his own surgeon to attend him.

As soon as Bayard was sufficiently recovered to give the orders, he caused the husband of his hostess to be sought out and conducted back in safety to his home and family.

For six weeks the knight lay ill, and during that time he was the recipient of many kindnesses from the members of the household. The ladies were especially attentive, and spent many hours by his bedside, ministering to his needs or amusing him. These days of convalescence were pleasant indeed to the great-hearted man who had known so little of the comforts of home and the tender ministrations of women. But he grew impatient of his captivity when he heard that there was probability of a fight between the French and a large army of Spanish then in northern Italy.

"Meseems that I am well," he said to his surgeon; "and I assure thee that biding here will harm me more than mend me, for I do most grievously fret."

The surgeon knew him too well to doubt his word, so he taught Bayard's valet how to dress the wound, which was now almost healed, and the knight made ready to rejoin his company.

Now when the lady and her husband heard of Bayard's approaching departure they were much concerned lest the knight should demand at least ten thousand ducats as a ransom for their property. The two discussed their dilemma earnestly, and decided that the lady should go to Bayard with twenty-five hundred ducats and beg him to be satisfied with this sum. Accordingly, she took the gold and sought the knight's presence.

"My lord," she said, "myself and family shall always thank God that it pleased Him, in the midst of the horrors of war, to lead such a noble knight to our house for our protection. We shall ever remember that it is to thee we owe our all. Since thou camest among us, we have received naught but kindness at thy hands. We are thy prisoners; the house, with its contents, is thine by right of conquest, but thou hast ever been so graciously generous that I have come to beseech thee to have pity on us and be content with this little gift that I have the honor to offer thee."

She opened her coffer and showed its contents to Bayard, who smiled as he asked,—

"How much is it, madam?"

The lady, not knowing how little he valued riches and fearing he thought the gift too small, said hastily—

"My lord, there are only twenty-five hundred ducats; but we will strive to make up the sum that thou desirest, if thou wilt mention it."

"Thou didst not understand me, lady," replied the knight. "Thou hast already paid me many times over, in kindnesses such as money cannot purchase. Keep thy gold; and remember that I am forever thy debtor, thy champion, and thy friend."

The lady, much pleased and astonished at this unexpected reply, begged him again to accept her gift.

"I shall be, indeed, a most unhappy woman," she declared, "if thou refuse it."

Bayard was too gallant to withstand a woman's pleadings, so he said—

"Since thou desirest it so much, lady, I yield." Then he requested her to send her daughters in.

The lady went to call the two damsels; and while she was gone, Bayard divided the money into three lots,—two of one thousand ducats each and one of five hundred.

In a little while the young girls came, and threw themselves on their knees before the knight; but he at once made them rise and be seated near him. Then they too strove to express their gratitude to him, and promised to pray to God for him so long as they should live.

Bayard was much affected, and thanked them in turn for their kindly ministrations. Then he said to them gently—

"Dear demoiselles, you know that fighting men are not ordinarily laden with jewels and pretty things to present to ladies, but I have here a sum of money which your lady mother hath just compelled me to accept. I give thee each a thousand ducats to form part of thy marriage portion."

The damsels would fain have declined his generous offer, but he would not hear nay; and he said to their mother, who had once more entered—

"Madam, these five hundred ducats I leave to thee to distribute amongst the convents that have suffered most from the pillage. And I must now make ready to depart."

Again they fell on their knees, this time pressing his hands and weeping as if their hearts would break; and the mother exclaimed through her tears—

"Too generous knight, God alone can reward thee!"

Then, amid tears and farewells, he departed.

On leaving these good ladies, the knight took his way to the French camp, where he was received with as much joy as if he were a reinforcement of ten thousand men.

Now at that time the French were masters of the Duchy of Milan, in northern Italy, and the presence of the Spanish army in that part of the country was adjudged by Louis to be a constant menace to his interests there. The king was in France, but his nephew, the Duke of Nemours, commanded the French army in Italy.

Scarcely had Bayard arrived in camp, when Nemours determined to give battle to the Spanish. All was soon astir in the French camps, in preparation; and Bayard and the duke were in high spirits.

Nemours admired the chevalier extravagantly. He was too truly great to be envious of Bayard's fame, and nothing delighted him more than to hear the knight's praises.

"My Lord Bayard," he said, shortly after the chevalier's arrival, "I am told that the Spanish fear thee more than they fear any other man on earth, and that they are constantly asking if thou art in camp. I wish thou wouldst go out and show thyself to them."

"By thy leave," answered the knight, laughing, "I will pay them a little visit to-morrow."

On the next morning, which was Good Friday, Bayard paid the "little visit" he promised. He had a way of calling on his enemies very scantily attended, and this time he took with him a mere handful of men.

The two armies were encamped within a few miles of each other before the city of Ravenna, which the Spaniards had undertaken to defend against King Louis's forces.

It is needless to say that the Spanish were not expecting Bayard's visit. They were in readiness, however, for another skirmishing party of French had descended upon them only an hour before. It seems that these earlier visitors were being badly worsted when the fearless knight appeared on the scene. In an instant the tide of victory turned. Bayard rallied the flying French and reversed the pursuit, chasing the Spaniards back to their garrison. Nor did he stop at that. Mindful of the visit he had promised to make the enemy, he dashed into the midst of their camp, knocked down tents and pavilions, laid men flat to right and to left, and made good his escape before the Spanish had time to realize what was happening to them.

When the laughing chevalier got back from his adventure, the Duke of Nemours exclaimed in admiration—

"Thou art the man, Lord Bayard, for skirmishes. No one knows so well as thou dost either how to begin or how to end them. Thou art our master in the art of war."

Two days later, on Easter Sunday, the French and Spanish met in the terrible battle of Ravenna,—one of the most cruel and bloody engagements in all history. The field remained to the French,—sixteen thousand out of an army of twenty thousand Spanish being slain or captured; but the victory was too dearly bought, for the "best blood of France" was the price paid for it.

Probably the knight Bayard forgot the gloomy predictions of the astrologer of Carpi. He did not keep near the duke that day, but went dashing about wherever his venturesome spirit led, performing almost incredible feats of arms. But, alas! he came back from his last brilliant charge to find the gallant Nemours dead on the field. The noble duke had been fairly cut to pieces by the many strokes received in his last brave stand against the enemy.

In the year 1513, Henry VIII., King of England, and Maximilian I. of Germany, invaded northern France and captured several towns. In the beginning of this campaign occurred what is known as the "Battle of Spurs;" and this engagement is of special interest on account of Bayard's part in it.

The English were investing the town of Terouana, in which there was almost a famine.

A French force under the Lord of Chabannes had been sent to the relief of the city, but it was found to be much too small to hurl against the outnumbering allies in open battle. Still was it imperative to revictual the suffering town, so Chabannes decided on a difficult stratagem.

A body of cavalry—under Bayard and others—was to feign an attack on the besieging English, and then retreat rapidly, to draw the enemy in pursuit, in order that other troops might take advantage of the confusion, and provision the invested town.

This plan was put in execution; but the English and their German allies played their unconscious part in their adversaries' program so well that they not only pursued the decoy cavalry, but fell upon other companies of French, throwing them into utter confusion.

As may be imagined, the seemingly ignoble flight of his cavalry was galling to a spirit like Bayard's. To "the knight without fear" it was almost impossible to refrain from fighting when an enemy was within striking distance; and now, as had often been the case, his warlike instinct got the better of his sense of obedience.

He was under orders not to fight, but to retreat at full speed when the enemy should give chase. The latter command he obeyed; the former might as well have been given to the storm. He would fly with his company awhile,—till his fiery spirit could no longer be curbed,—then he would wheel about and charge the pursuing English with such impetuous courage that numbers would be compelled to fall back for an instant before his matchless prowess.

At length the chevalier and his company reached a bridge which spanned a swift torrent. He could not resist the temptation of making a stand against the enemy, though he had a mere handful of men about him, so he whirled his horse about and faced the foe. It mattered little how great were the odds against him, for the spirit of battle possessed him. He gave one glance at the remnant that rallied to him, then said to a messenger quickly,—

"Go tell my Lord of Chabannes that I will hold this bridge and whip them if he will but send me reinforcements."

The reinforcements did not come; but Bayard and his little company held the bridge with sword and lance till they saw a large division of German troops fording the stream in their rear. Seeing that they were thus surrounded, and by overwhelming numbers, Bayard said to his men cheerily—

"Let us give ourselves up, comrades; further resistance were but a bootless sacrifice." Not the least noteworthy of Bayard's many fine qualities were his rare good sense and his cheerfulness under misfortune. If he won, he enjoyed his victory; if he lost, he accepted defeat like a philosopher.

His men now followed his advice, each surrendering to the nearest enemy.

Now it chanced, in the confusion, that Bayard saw an exhausted German throw himself down under a near-by tree and unbuckle his sword. In an instant the chevalier sprang to him, snatched up the sword, and presented its point to the officer's throat.

"Surrender or die!" he demanded of the astonished man-at-arms.

Not caring to give up his life, the officer surrendered himself captive to the chevalier, saying,

"As I am without weapon, I render myself to thee. But tell me, pray, to whom I have surrendered."

"To Captain Bayard," replied the chevalier, enjoying the joke, "and I am in turn thy prisoner, by the result of this battle."

So saying, Bayard unbuckled his own sword and handed it to the fellow with mock gravity.

The officer was mystified; but Bayard soon made him see the philosophy, if not the fun, of the situation, and the two marched off together to the English camp—each captive to the other—each bearing the other's surrendered sword.

Here the chevalier remained for some days as prisoner to the man he had captured. But he soon tired of this restraint, and one morning said to his captor with suspicious gravity—

"My worthy friend, I am beginning to tire of doing nothing. Thou wilt oblige me much if thou wilt have me escorted to the camp of my king."

The other was astounded.

"What? eh?" he exclaimed. "But thou sayest nothing of thy ransom!"

"Nor thou of thine," answered the knight, with a grave face. "Art thou not my prisoner and bound to obey me? I have thy word of surrender, and thou shalt keep it. If not, I shall challenge thee."

His captor hardly knew how to take this sally, or what answer to make to it. However, he did know that the last thing in the world he desired was a duel with the invincible Bayard, so he said—

"Sir Captain, let us report our case to higher authority. I will abide by whatever decision is made."

So, according to agreement, the case was reported to the King of England and the Emperor Maximilian, who were in camp together. Bayard, who had a witty mind and a ready tongue, laid the matter before their Majesties very drolly; and the judgment rendered by them goes to show that even great princes can appreciate humorous situations. They agreed that as Bayard and his captor-captive were prisoner each to the other, they were "quits;" and that Bayard should have the liberty of returning to his commander without ransom. King Henry, however, stipulated that the knight should remain en parole in Flanders for six weeks. Bayard cheerfully consented to the terms, and being "le chevalier sans reproche," kept his promise to the letter.

After this interview, the King of England secretly offered to take Bayard into his own service, promising to load the knight with riches and honors if he would desert the cause of France and cast his fortunes with the English.

Bayard answered the King of England as he had before answered the Pope of Rome,—

"I have but one master in heaven—God, and one upon earth—the King of France."

On the first of January, 1514, Louis XII. died. He was succeeded by Francis I., who was then only twenty years of age.

Francis, like his predecessors, was haunted by the idea of his Italian rights, but was never able to maintain them for any great length of time. One of his first acts of sovereignty was to raise a large army and invade Italy to recover the Duchy of Milan, which had again been wrested from France.

Bayard was with the king on this expedition. Indeed, he preceded Francis into Italy, and by a brilliant stratagem took prisoner Lord Prospero Colonna, Lieutenant-General of the Pope. Prospero it was who had boasted that sooner or later he would take Bayard like a bird in a trap.

Soon afterwards, King Francis crossed the mountains with a great army, and marched upon Milan, at that time defended by a large body of Swiss. The two armies met in a hard-fought battle, and the French were victorious, driving the Swiss entirely out of the duchy.

In this battle, as in many others, Bayard's splendid courage won the day. No other knight could equal him in arms, and none other could so rouse the spirit of the French soldiers; but his greatest service to France that day was the lesson in chivalry he taught her boyish king.

Fired by the noble example of the chevalier, young Francis bore himself in battle like a king indeed, and made old soldiers wonder at his fortitude and courage.

When the battle was over, the gallant young king was the first to ascribe the honor of the victory to Bayard, and the nobles and captains agreed with him heartily.

Anxious to show conspicuous honor to the knight, King Francis then astonished the assembled company—and none more than the chevalier himself—by a most strange request.

"Bayard, my friend," he exclaimed in loving familiarity, "I wish to be knighted by thy hand this day; for thou hast fought on foot and on horseback, in many battles against many nations, and better than all others. Thou art indeed the most worthy knight of all."

Never before had monarch honored a subject with such a request.

The modest chevalier sought to decline this embarrassingly great distinction, saying that such honor belonged only to princes of the blood, but the enthusiastic Francis would not take refusal.

"Nay," he exclaimed, "quote me neither laws nor canons, chevalier; but do my will and command, if thou wouldst still be numbered amongst my loyal servants and subjects."