Chapter 19

He was a minstrel--in his mood
Was wisdom mix'd with folly;
A tame companion to the good,
But wild and fierce among the rude,
And jovial with the jolly.
ARCHIBALD ARMSTRONG.

The events of the preceding day had been of a nature so
interesting, and latterly so harassing, that the Constable felt
weary as after a severely contested battle-field, and slept
soundly until the earliest beams of dawn saluted him through the
opening of the tent. It was then that, with a mingled feeling of
pain and satisfaction, he began to review the change which had
taken place in his condition since the preceding morning. He had
then risen an ardent bridegroom, anxious to find favour in the
eyes of his fair bride, and scrupulous about his dress and
appointments, as if he had been as young in years as in hopes and
wishes. This was over, and he had now before him the painful task
of leaving his betrothed for a term of years, even before wedlock
had united them indissolubly, and of reflecting that she was
exposed to all the dangers which assail female constancy in a
situation thus critical. When the immediate anxiety for his nephew
was removed, he was tempted to think that he had been something
hasty in listening to the arguments of the Archbishop, and in
believing that Damian's death or recovery depended upon his own
accomplishing, to the letter, and without delay, his vow for the
Holy Land. "How many princes and kings," he thought to himself,
"have assumed the Cross, and delayed or renounced it, yet lived
and died in wealth and honour, without sustaining such a
visitation as that with which Baldwin threatened me; and in what
case or particular did such men deserve more indulgence than I?
But the die is now cast, and it signifies little to inquire
whether my obedience to the mandates of the Church has saved the
life of my nephew, or whether I have not fallen, as laymen are
wont to fall, whenever there is an encounter of wits betwixt them
and those of the spirituality. I would to God it may prove
otherwise, since, girding on my sword as Heaven's champion, I
might the better expect Heaven's protection for her whom I must
unhappily leave behind me."

As these reflections passed through his mind, he heard the warders
at the entrance of his tent challenge some one whose footsteps
were heard approaching it. The person stopped on their challenge,
and presently after was heard the sound of a rote, (a small
species of lute,) the strings of which were managed by means of a
small wheel. After a short prelude, a manly voice, of good
compass, sung verses, which, translated into modern language,
might run nearly thus:

I.

"Soldier, wake--the day is peeping:,