CAMBELL. It is Monday night, and I am—oh, so tired!—the three grand weddings are over—very beautiful sights they were, and very pleasant—the feasts and the dances. But all is done now, and if Mr. Renaud feels any doubt tonight about his body being himself, I have none about mine. As sheen made a capital bride in the sense in which a man would use the word. That is, she looked very nice, and she stood like a statue. I do not believe she had an idea in her head beyond these, that she was going to be married, that it was a very delightful thing, and that she must look well and behave becomingly. Is that the sort of woman that men like? It is the sort that some men seem to think all women are. But Amore—if ever I did see a creature more absurd than he, I do not know who it was. He fidgeted over a sheen's bridal dress precisely as if he had been her milliner. At the very last minute the garland had to be altered, because it did not suit him. Most charming of all the weddings was guys. Dear Lady Sybil was so beautiful, and behaved so perfectly, as I should judge if a bride's behavior. Soft, moisture dimming her dark eyes, and a little gentle tremulousness in her sweet lips. Her dress was simply enchanting, soft and white. Perhaps Lady Isabel made the most splendid-looking bride of the three, for her dress was gorgeous, and while Lady Sybil's style of beauty is by far the more artistic and poetical, Lady Isabel's is certainly the more showy. So far as I could judge, the three brides regarded their bridegrooms with very different eyes. To a sheen he was an accident of the right, a portion of the ceremony which it would spoil the show to leave out. To Lady Isabel he was a new horse, just mounted, interesting to try, and a pleasant triumph to subdue. But to Lady Sybil he was the sum and center of all, and everything deserved attention just in proportion as it concerned him. I almost hoped that a sheen does not love Amari, for I feel sure she will be very unhappy if she do. As to Miss Sir Humphrey de Tour, I do not think that Lady Isabel will find him a pleasant charger. He is anything but spirited, and seems to me to have a little of the mule about him, a creature who would be given at times to taking the bit in his teeth and absolutely refusing to go a yard farther. And now it is all over, the pageants and the feasts and the dancing, and I cannot tell why I am sad. How is it, or why is it, that after one has enjoyed anything very much, one always does feel sad? I think, except to the bride and bridegroom, a wedding is a very sorrowful thing.  There is a bustle, and a show, and then you wake up and miss one out of your life. It is true, the one can come back still. But does he come back to be yours any more? I think the instances must be very, very few in which it is so, and only where both are, to you, very near and dear. I think Marguerite saw I looked tired and sad. There have been light hearts to-day, she said, and there have been heavy ones. But the light of to-day may be the heavy of to-morrow, and the sorrow of to-night may turn to joy in the morning. I do feel sorrowful, Margo, but I do not know why. My damazelle is weary, and all great joy brings a dull, tired feeling after it. I suppose it is the infirmity of earth. The angels do not feel it so. I should like to be an angel, said I. It must be so nice to fly. And I, said Marguerite, but not for that reason, I should like to have no sin, and to see the good God. Oh dear, said I, that is just what I should not like. In the sense of never doing wrong it might be all very well, but I should not want never to have any amusement, which I suppose thou meanest, and seeing the good God would frighten me dreadfully. Does my damazelle remember the time when little Jaco, Bertrod's brother, set fire to the hay-rick by playing with lighted straws? Oh yes, very well. Why, what has that to do with it? Does she recollect how he shrieked and struggled when Robert and Pierre took him and carried him into the hall for the Monsignor himself to judge him for his naughtiness? Oh yes, Marguerite, I really felt sorry for the child. He was so terrified. And yet it was half ludicrous. Monsignor did not even have him whipped. Yet if I remember rightly, my damazelle was standing by Monsignor's side at the very time, and she did not look frightened in the least. Will she allow her servant to ask why? Why should I, Marguerite? I had done nothing wrong. And why is my damazelle more like Jaco than herself when she comes to think of seeing the good God? Ah, that would like me to say, because I have done wrong, I suppose. Yes, but I think there was another reason as well. Why was that, Marguerite? My damazelle is Monsignor's own child. She knows him. She loves her, and she knows it. But we are all children of the good God, Marguerite. Will my damazelle pardon me? We are all his creatures, not all his children. Oh no, no. Oh, Marguerite, said I suddenly, didst thou note that tall dark handsome knight who stood on Count Guy's left hand, Count Raymond of Tripoli? He in a mantle lined with black sable and gold-barred scarlet hose? That is the man I mean. I saw him. Why, if it please my damazelle? Didst thou like him? My damazelle did not like him? Marguerite is very fond of answering one question by another. I did not, and I could not tell why. Nor I, but I could. Then tell me, Marguerite. My damazelle. Every man has a mark upon his brow which the good God and his angels can see. But few men see it, and in some it is not easy to see. Many foreheads look blank to our eyes, but sooner or later one of the two marks is certain to shine forth, either the holy cross of our Lord or the badge of the great enemy, the star that fell from heaven. And what I saw on that man's lofty brow was not the cross of Christ, but the star of Satan.  Now tell me, Prithee, on whose forehead, in this house, thou seest the cross. The Lady Judith. She answered without the least hesitation, and I think the Lady Sybil. Let my damazelle pardon me if I cannot name any other with certainty. I have weak eyes for such sights. I have hope of Monsignor Count Guy. Margo, Margo, cried I, thou uncharitable old creature, only three. But not the Lady Queen, nor the Lady Isabel, nor the Holy Patriarch? Oh, fie! Let my damazelle pardon her servant. The Lady Queen, ah, I have no right to say. She looks blank to me. The cross may be there, and I may be blind. But the Patriarch? No. And the Lady Isabel? The good God, forgive me if I sin, but I believe I see the star on her. But on me, said I, laughing to hide a curious sensation which I felt, much akin to mortification. Yet what did old Marguerite's foolish fancies matter? I was surprised to see her worn old eye suddenly fill with tears. My sweet damazelle, she said, the good God bring out the Holy Cross on the brow that I love so well. But as yet, if I speak it all, I must speak truth. I have not seen it there. I could not make out why I did not like the Count of Tripoli. He is a very handsome man, even my partial eyes must admit, handsomer than Guy. But there is a strange look in his eyes, as if you only saw the lid of a coffer, and beneath inside the coffer there might be something dark and dangerous. Guy says he is a splendid fellow, but Guy always was given to making sudden friendships and to imagining all his friends to be angels until he discovered they were men. I doubt very much the angelic nature of Count Raymond. I do not like him.  Yet I cannot help wishing she had not said that about me. And I do not think it was very respectful. She might have said something more civil, whatever she thought. Marguerite's always will speak just as she thinks. That is like a villain. It would never do for us nobles. Guy has now been regent of the Holy Land for half a year. Some people seem to fancy that he is rather too stern. Such a comical idea. And of Guy, of all people. I think I know how it is. Guy is very impulsive in enterprise, and very impetuous in pursuing it. And he sees that during the king's illness everything has gone wrong and fallen into disorder, and of course it will not do to let things go on so. People must be governed and kept in their places. Of course they must. Guy, if there were no order kept, the nobles and the villains would be all mixed up with each other, and some of the more intelligent and ambitious of the villains might even begin to fancy themselves on a par with the nobles. For there is a sort of intelligence in some of those people, though it must be of quite a different order from the intellect of the nobles. I used to think villains never were ambitious, but I have learned lately that some of them do entertain some such feeling. It must be a most dangerous idea to get into a villain's head. Though of course right and proper enough for a noble. But I cannot imagine why villains cannot be contented with their place. Did not Providence make them villains? And if they have plenty of food and clothing, and shelter and fire, and a good dance now and then on the village green, and an extra holiday when the senior's daughter is married, or when his son comes of age, what can they possibly want more? I said so to Marguerite. Ha! That is all the nobles know, she answered quietly enough. With some fire in the old eyes. They do not realize that we are men just as they are. God sent us into his world with just as much body and soul as he did them. We have intellects and hearts and consciences just like them. Just like. Only fancy. I trust the good God may not have to teach it to them through pain. But they ought to be satisfied, said I. I am perfectly content with my place in the world. Why are they not contented? It is easier to be content with velvet than duffel, said Marguerite more calmly. It looks better and feels softer too. If my demoiselle were to try the duffel for a day, perhaps she would complain that it felt harsh. To me, very likely, said I, but a villain would not have a fine skin like mine. The finest skin does not always cover the finest feelings, said Marguerite in her dry way. What a very silly idea. Of course those people cannot have such feelings as I have. It would be quite absurd to think so. I do think, however, that what vexed me most of anything was that Amore—that silly little boy—should take it into his head to lecture Guy on the way he chose to govern, as if he could know anything about it, why he is two whole years younger than Guy. I told him so, feeling really vexed at his impudence, and what should he say but that I was seven years younger than he? I know that, but I am a woman, and women always have more sense than men.  I have made a discovery to-day which has astonished me. Lady Judith has a whole Bible, and Psalter too, of her own—not written in Latin, but in her own tongue in which she was born—that is, Greek—and she says that a great part of the Bible, all the holy evangelists and the writings of the messengers, the holy apostles, were originally written in Greek. I always thought that the holy Scripture had been written in Latin. I asked her if Latin were not the language the holy angels spoke in our Lord when he was upon the earth. She answered that she did not think we knew what language the holy angels spoke, and she should doubt if it were any tongue spoken on earth, but that the good God and the messengers, the holy apostles, she had no doubt at all spoke Greek. It sounds very strange.  I almost think Ashene approves upon acquaintance. Not that I find her any cleverer than I expected, but I think she is good-natured, and seems to have no malice in her.  I could not do that. I suppose that is why I admire it in Ashene. A young nun came this morning to visit Lady Judith, one of her own order. I could not quite understand their conversation.  She spoke so beautifully I thought about the perfection one could attain to in this life, how one's whole heart and soul might be so permeated with God that one might pass through life without committing any deed of sin or thinking any evil thought. Not of course that I could ever attain to such perfection, but it sounded very beautiful and holy. I was quite surprised to see how constrained and even cool Lady Judith was. It was only yesterday that she assented warmly to Old Marguerite's saying that no one who served God could love any kind of sin. But with Sister Eudoxia, who spoke so much more charmingly on the same subject, she sat almost silent, and when she did speak it seemed to be rather in descent than ascent. It puzzled me. When Sister Eudoxia was gone Lady Sybil said, Oh what happiness if one could attain to the perfection of living absolutely without sin? We shall, answered Lady Judith, but it will not be in this world. But Sister Eudoxia says it might be. Ah, my poor Sister Eudoxia, said Lady Judith sadly. She has taken up with a heresy nearly as old as Christianity itself, and worse than that of Messir Renaud de Montlou, because it has so much more truth in it. I, so much mixture of truth and so much apparent loveliness, that it can be no wonder if it almost deceived the very elect. Beware of being entangled in it, my children. Heresy, holy mother, cried Lady Sybil with a shocked look. I thought I had never heard anyone ascribe more of the glory of our salvation to God than she did. For she said that everything was done for us by the good Lord, and that even our perfection was wrought by him for us. And not by him in us, said Lady Judith. The very point of the heresy, my child, Eudoxia sees no distinction between the righteousness done for us, which is our ground of justification before God, and the holiness wrought in us, which is our conformity to his image. The first was finished on the rude, eleven centuries ago. The second goes on in the heart of every child of God here and now. She is one of those who, without intending it, or even knowing that they do it, do yet sadly fail to realize the work of the Holy Ghost. But how much she spoke of the blessed spirit, objected Lady Sybil. My daughter, said Lady Judith with a smile, has thou yet not found out the difference between names and things? There are many men who worship God most devoutly, but it is a God they have made to themselves. Every man on earth is ready to love and serve God with his whole heart, if he may set up God after his own pattern. And what that really means is a God as like as possible to himself, who will look with perfect complacency on the darling sins which he cherishes, and may then be allowed to condemn with the utmost sternness all evil passions to which he is not addicted. That sounds very shocking, Holy Mother, said Lady Sybil. We are all liable to the temptation, replied Lady Judith, and are apt to slide into it ere we know it. We all wrought for a little time in silence when Lady Sybil said, What do you call that heresy, Holy Mother, into which you say that Sister Eudoxia has fallen? If that will look into the vision of the apostle, blessed John, called the Apocalypse, answered Lady Judith, Thou wilt see what Christ our Lord calls it. This thou hast, that thou rejectists the teaching of the Nicola Knights which I hate. But I thought, said Lady Sybil, looking rather surprised, that those Nicola-tains who were heretics in the early church held some very horrible doctrines and led extremely wicked lives. The Holy Patriarch was speaking of them not long ago. Ah, my child, said Lady Judith, men do not leap but grow into great wickedness. Does thou not see how the doctrine works? First, it is possible to live and do no sin. Secondly, I can live and do no sin. Thirdly, I do live and not sin. Lastly, when this point is reached, whatever my spiritual instinct does not condemn, I, being thus perfect, cannot be sin. Therefore I may do what I please. If I lie, murder, steal, which would be dreadful sins in another, they are no sins in me because of my perfection. And is this following Christ? Assuredly not. But does Sister Eudoxia really imagine that? Oh no, responded Lady Judith, she has not reached that point. Comparatively few get so far on the road as that. But that is whether the road is leading them. Then what is the root of the heresy? That which I believe lies at the root of every heresy, rejecting God's word that we may keep our own traditions. The stem may perhaps consist of two things, the want of sufficient lowliness and the want of a right knowledge of sin. It is not enough realized that a man's conscience, like all else in him, has been injured by the fall, but conscience is looked on as a heavenly judge still in its original purity. This, as thou mayest guess, leads to deprecation of the word of God and exultation of the conscience over the word. And also it is not properly seen that while a man lives, the flesh shall live with him, and the flesh and the renewed spirit must be in perpetual warfare to the end. But we know, said Lady Sybil, and there she paused. We know, repeated Lady Judith with a smile, ah my child, we think we know a great deal. And we are like children playing on the seashore who fancy that they know all that is in the sea, because they have scooped up a little seawater in their hands. There are heights and depths in God's word and in God's purposes, which you and I have never reached yet, which perhaps we shall never reach, for as the heaven is high above the earth, so are his ways higher than our ways, and his thoughts than our thoughts. I was curious to know what Marguerite would say. She always agrees so strangely with Lady Judith, even when they have not talked the matter over at all. So I said, when I went up to change my dress.  My demoiselle, thinks me so perfect then, said she with a rather comical look. I could not help laughing. Well, not quite when thou opposes my will, said I, but dost thou know, there are some people who say that they live without sin. That may be when to contradict the holy of angels as a mark of perfection, said Marguerite dryly. Well, what hast thou heard about that in I listening, Marguerite? said I, laughing. The first thing I heard perplexed me, said she. It was of Monsignor St. John, who said that he that is born of God doth not commit sin, and it troubled me sorely for a time since I knew I did sin and feared lest I was therefore not born of God. But one day Father Judith's read again, from the very same writing, that if any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father. And likewise that if we say we have no sin, we are liars. So then I thought, well, how is this? Monsignor the Holy Apostle would not contradict himself. But still I could not see how to reconcile them, though I had thought and thought till my brain felt nearly cracked. And all at once Father Judith's read, thanks be to the good God, something from the Monsignor St. Paul, which put it all to right. What was that? Ah, I could not get it by heart. It was too difficult and very long. But it was something like this, that in a Christian man there are two hearts, of which the one, which is from God, does not sin at all, and the other, which is the evil heart born in us, is always committing sin. But Margo, which of thy two hearts is thyself? Ha, I cannot answer such questions, the good God will know. But thou sure, those are not wicked people? Only no, Monsignor St. Paul said, I and me all through. Oh, but Margo, he could not have meant himself. If he had not meant what he said, I should think he would have mentioned it, said Marguerite in her dry, quaint style. Well, a holy apostle is different, of course, said I, but it looks very odd to me, that anybody living now should fancy he never does wrong. Ah, the poor soul, said Marguerite, the good God knows better if he do not. CHAPTER VIII. As good as most people. The best way to see divine light is to put out your own candle. This morning the Lady Princess of Antioch visited the Lady Queen and remained for the day, taking her departure only just before the gates were closed, for she preferred to camp out at night. She is quite young and is a niece of the Lady Queen. After she was gone we were talking about her in the bower, and from her we came to speak of the late Princess, her Lord's mother. Pray, do not talk of her, said Lady Isabel. She made herself a byword by her shameless behavior. Only thoughtless, remonstrated Lady Sybil gently, I never thought she deserved what was said of her. Oh no, you never think anybody does, sneered her sister. I could not have associated with such a woman. She must have known what was said of her. I wonder that she was brazen enough to show herself in public at all. But think, Isabel, I do not believe she did know. You know she was not at all clever. She was half-witted, or not much better, was the answer. Oh yes, I know that, but she must have known. I do not think she did, said Lady Sybil earnestly. Then she ought to have known, sharply replied Lady Isabel.  She was a pest to society. Oh, Isabel, deprecated her sister. She was very good-natured. Sybil, I never saw anyone like you. You would have found a good word for Judas Iscariot. Hardly, said Lady Sybil, just as gently as before. But perhaps I might have helped finding evil ones. There are pearl-gatherers and dirt-gatherers, quietly remarked Lady Judas, who had hitherto listened in silence. The latter have, by far, the larger cargo, but the handful of the former outweighs it in value. What do you mean, Holy Mother, inquired Lady Isabel, turning quickly to her, rather too sharply, I thought, to be altogether respectful? Only let her that thinketh she standeth take heed lest she fall, said Lady Judas, with a quiet smile. I, said Lady Isabel, with a word of meaning in her tone. My child, was the reply. They that undertake to censure the cleanness of their neighbor's robes should be very careful to avoid any spot on the purity of their own. Does thou not remember our Lord's saying about the moat and the beam? Well, said Lady Isabel, bringing her scissors together with a good deal of snap, I think that those who associate with such people as the Princess Constantia bring a reflection on their own characters. Snow and soot do not go well together. The soot defiles the snow, responded Lady Judith, but it does not affect the sun-beam. I do not understand you, said Lady Isabel, bluntly. Those who confide in their own strength and goodness, Isabel, are like the snow—very fair, until sullied—but liable to be sullied by the least speck. But those who take hold of God's strength, which is Christ our Lord, are the sun-beam, a heavenly emanation, which cannot be sullied. Art thou the snow, or the sun-beam, my child? O dear, I cannot deal with tropes and figures in that style, answered she, rising, and my work is finished. I am going now. I fancied. She did not look very sorry for it. Great events are happening. The Lord King, finding his malady grows rather worse than better, has resolved to abdicate, in favor of his nephew, Lady Isabel's baby son. So to-morrow, Baudouin the Fifth, is to be proclaimed throughout the Holy City, on the day of St. Edmund the King—footnote, November 20th—and footnote—he will be crowned in the Church of the Holy Seplicar. They say the Lord King was a very wise man before he became a messel, and he will still give counsel when needed, the young King being but three years old. I do not quite see what difference the abdication will make. Guy must still remain regent for several years, and the only change is that he will govern for his stepson instead of his brother-in-law. And I feel a little jealous that Lady Sybil should be passed by. She, not her son, is the next heir of the crown. Why must she be the subject of her own child, who ought to be hers? I really feel vexed about it, and so does Guy, I am sure, though he says nothing—at least to me. As the Lady Sybil herself, she is so meek and gentle that if a beggar in the street were put over her head, I believe she would kneel to do her homage without a cloud on her sweet face. However, I felt at liberty to say what I thought to Amore, though I seldom do it without being annoyed by his answer, and certainly I was now. She—'s a woman,' said Miss Sir Amare. What does a woman know about governing? What does a baby know? said I. Oh! But he will be a man some day, answered Amore. But Guy will govern in either case, I replied, trying not to be angry with him. He is so silly, and he thinks himself so supremely wise. I do believe the more foolish people are the wiser they think themselves. Ha! said he. Saving your presence, Demiselle Elaine, I am not so sure that Guy knows much about it.  I believe thou hast told me that before. He returned with provoking coolness. I dashed away, for I knew I might as well talk to Demoselle Melisande's pet weasel. I do not like the count of Tripoli. The more I see of him, the less I like him, and I do not like his fawning professions of friendship for Guy. Guy does not see through it a bit. I believe he only means to use Guy as a ladder by which to climb himself, and as soon as he is at the top, he will kick the ladder down behind him. Did I not say that Amore was an idiot? And is it not true? Here is our sister Ashene, the mother of a pretty little baby, and instead of being thankful that Ashene and the infant are doing well, there goes Amore growling and grumbling about the house because his child is a girl. Nay, he does more, for he snarls at Ashene, as if it were her fault, poor thing. She knows I wanted a boy, he said this morning.  To see how coolly Ashene takes it is the strangest thing of all. I was afraid he would be disappointed, she said calmly. You see, men don't think much of girls.  Ashene seemed to think that very funny. Come, Elaine, I cannot let thee say that of my Lord and sit silent, and I think Monsieur Humphredetour quite as well qualified for the position. Ah, said I, but Lady Isabel keeps her curb much tighter than thou. I really feel almost sorry for him sometimes when she treats him like a baby before all the world. She may do that once too often, said Ashene. Amore means to call the baby Eloise, for a reason which would never have occurred to anyone but himself, because we have not had that name in the family before. And Ashene smilingly accepts it, as I believe she would nebuchadnezzar if he ordered her. Today the little king was crowned in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at noon, and in the evening the demoiselle Eloise de Lucian was baptized into the fold of Christ. The king was very good. I think he inherits much of his mother's sweet disposition. I cannot say as much for my small niece, for she cried with all her heart when the Holy Patriarch took her in his arms. And he said it showed that Satan must have taken strong possession of her, and was very hard to dislodge. But no sooner had the Holy Cross been signed on her, and the Holy Patriarch gave her back into the arms of her nurse, than by the power of our Lord she was quite another creature, and did not utter a single cry. So wonderful and effectual a thing is the grace of Holy Baptism. Much effect it took on thee then, growled Amore, to whom I said this. For thou didst wait until the water touched thy face, and then didst set up such screams as never were heard from mortal babe before. What dost thou know about it? Said I. Ha! Don't I? Answered he provokingly. I have been amused to hear the different ideas of various people when they first see the baby.  Lady Judith took it in her arms, and after rocking it a little, she said, What possibilities lie hidden here?   Are young babies no prettier? Demoiselle Melissande danced it up and down and sang in a lively nursery song. Guy, like a man, said with an amused look, Well, that is a funny little article. Eloise! That means hidden wisdom, does it not? Very much hidden just now, I should think.  And lastly, old Marguerite came to see her nurslings, nurslings, nursling. I wondered what she would say. She took it in her arms, and looked at it for some time without speaking, and then she said softly, Little child, he that was once a little child blessed thee, and may he give thee what he sees best, that will most likely be something different from what we see. Oh, Marguerite, said I, that may be an early death. That would be the best of all, my Demoiselle. Footnote. It would have been well for Eloise, who bears a spotted reputation in history. And footnote. Ah, the eyes of a noble maiden of seventeen years see not so far as the eyes of a villain woman of seventy. There are good things in this world I do not deny it, but the best thing is surely to be safe above this world, safe with the good Lord. I do not want to lose my baby, said a sheen with a rather sad smile. Oh, Dom, you do not, replied Marguerite, answering the smile with a brighter one. But if the good Lord should call her, it is best to let her rise and go to him. Again we hear something more of those strange rumors as though the people were not content under Guy's government. But what does it signify? They are only villains, yet villains can insults nobles, no doubt. Sister Eudoxia, who was here again yesterday, says they actually talk of a petition to the king to entreat him to displace Guy and set someone else in his stead. The thought of their presuming to have an idea on the question, as if they could understand anything about government. Discontented under Guy? My Guy. They are nothing better than rebels. They ought to be put down and kept down. The Lady Queen has received a letter from her kindred at Byzantium, from which she hears that the young Byzantine Caesar, who is but a child, has been wedded to the daughter of the Lord King of France. Dame Agnes is her name, and she is but eight years old. I wonder if it is very, very wicked to hate people. Old Marguerite will have it, that it is just as bad as murder, and that the Holy Evangel says so. I am sure she must have listened wrong. For I do hate Count Raymond of Tripoli, and I can't help it. I must and will hate him. He has one Guy's ear completely, and Guy sees through his eyes. I cannot bear him, the fawning, handsome scoundrel. I am sure he is one. They say too that he is not over good to his wife, for I am sorry to say he has a wife. I pity her, poor creature. Lady Judith asked me when I repeated this, who they were. I do not know, Holy Mother, said I, everybody I suppose. I would not put too much faith in them, Helena, she said. They often say a great deal that is not true. But one must attend to it, Holy Mother, I answered. Why? replied she. Oh, because it would never do. What would never do? To despise the opinion of society. Why? she gently persisted. Really, I found it rather difficult to say why. Many things, Helena, I have seen need despise the opinion of society when it contradicted thy will. Is it not more reasonable to despise it when it contradicts God's will? Holy Mother, I pray you tell me. Is that the world? said I. Because my nurse, old Marguerite, says that most senior Saint John bade us beware of the world and the flesh, as well as the devil. And I am not quite sure what it means, except that the world is other people and the flesh is me. But how can I be inimical to my own salvation? My child, said Lady Judith, gently, when some duty is brought to thy remembrance, is there nothing within thee which feels as if it rose up and said, oh, but I do not want to do that. Never, Helena? Oh yes, very often, said I. That is the flesh, said she, and they that are of Christ the flesh have crucified with its passions and its lusts. Oh, dear, I exclaimed almost involuntarily. Very unpleasant, is it not? said Lady Judith, smiling. Ah, dear child, the flesh takes long in dying. Crucifixion is a very slow process and a very painful process. They that are not willing to endure hardness had better not enlist in the army of Jesus Christ. Ah, that is what I always thought, said I. Religious persons cannot be very happy. Of course it would not be right for them. They wait till the next world. And yet Old Marguerite always seems happy. I do not quite understand it. Child! Lady Judith dropped her broidering, and the deep, sweet, gray eyes looked earnestly into mine. What dost thou know of happiness? Helena following Christ is not a hardship, it is a luxury. The happiness, or rather the mirth, of this world is often incompatible with it, but it is because the one is so far above the other that it extinguishes it, as the light of the sun extinguishes the lamp. Yet who would prefer the lamp before the sunlight? Tell me, Helena, hast thou any wish to go to heaven? Certainly, holy mother. And what dost thou expect to find there? I should be glad to know. I could hardly tell where to begin. Well, I said, after a moment's thought, I expect to fly and to enjoy myself intensely, and never to have another pain, nor shed a tear, and to see all whom I love, and be always with them, and love them, and be loved by them for ever and ever. And there will be all manner of delights and pleasures. I cannot think of anything else. And that is thy heaven? said Lady Judith, with a smile in which I thought the chief ingredient was tender compassion, though I could not see why. Oh, child, it would be no heaven at all to me. Verily as a man thinketh in his heart so is he. Pleasure and ease and earthly love. These are thy treasures, Helena. For where thy treasure is there shall thine heart be. But what is the matter with my heaven? said I, feeling a little aggrieved. When my child thou hast left out the central figure, what were a coronation if there were no king, or a wedding where there were no bride? Why, what was left would be equivalent to nothing. Ask thine old nurse, and see if thy heaven would satisfy her. Whom have we in heaven but thee? And there is none upon earth that we desire in comparison of thee. Old Marguerite understands that. Does thou, my maiden? I shook my head. I felt too mortified to speak, to have a poor ignorant and villain woman held up to me as knowing more than I knew, and being happier than I, really was humiliating. Yet I could not resent it from one so high as Lady Judith. Lady Judith would have said more, I fancy, but Melisande came in and she quietly dropped the matter, as she generally does if any third person enters. But the next morning, as Marguerite was dressing my hair, I asked her what her notion of heaven was. Inside with the blessed Lord, and the devil, and all the sins and evil things left outside, she said, it will be rest to be rid of evil, but it will be glory to be with the Lord. And the pleasures, and the flying, and all the delightful things, Marguerite, I said. Ha, yes, that will be very nice, she admitted, and to meet those whom we have lost, that will be the very next best thing to seeing the good Lord. Has thou lost many whom thou hast loved, Marguerite? Ha, no, very few, compared with some. My mother and my husband and my two children, that is all. I never knew my father, and I was an only child. But it may be the fewer one has to love, the more one loves them. An only child, said I. But Perrette calls the aunt. Ha, yes, she is my husband's niece, the same thing. I think Marguerite seems to agree with Lady Judith, though of course she does not express herself so well. And I cannot help wondering how they arrange in heaven. I suppose there will be thrones nearest to the good Lord for the kings and the princes who will be there, and below that velvet settles for the nobles, and beneath again the crowd of common people. I should think that would be the arrangement, because of course no one could expect them to mingle altogether. That would be really shocking. Yet I cannot altogether make it out. If messieurs the holy apostles were originally fishermen and worked for their living, it is very queer. I do not understand it. But I suppose the holy angels will take care to put it right and have a proper barrier between the apostles and the nobles and the poor villains who are admitted of special grace, through their own good deeds and the super-abundant merits of the holy saints. In the afternoon when Guy was in audience of the Lord King and the Lady Queen, and Lady Isabel and Melisande were riding forth, with messieurs, homefroy, and Amaria as their cavaliers, I found Lady Judith and Lady Sybil busy spinning, and I brought my broidery and sat down with them. We did not talk much for a while, only a few words now and then, when all at once Lady Judith said, Helena, wilt thou try this needle for thy work? I took the needle and threaded it and set to work again. But I found to my surprise that I could not get on at all. The needle would hardly go through the silk, and it left an ugly hole when it did. Lady Judith went on with her spinning for a few minutes, but at length she looked up and said, Well, Helena, how dost thou like the needle? Not at all, holy mother, if it please you, said I, for I cannot get on with it. She selected another and gave it to me. Well, this is beautiful for broidery, I said, so fine and sharp. It is the answer to a question thou worked to ask me yesterday, said Lady Judith, and I gave thee no reply. Canst thou guess what the question was? I could not, and said so. I did not remember asking anything that had to do with needles, and I never thought of any hidden meaning. Thy question was, what is the world? And what harm does the world do to us? That needle that I first gave thee has its point blunted, and that is what the world does to a child of God. It blunts his point. I do not understand, said I. Little Helena, said Lady Judith, before a point can be blunted there must be one to blunt. Thou couldst not sow with a wooden post. So before the world can injure thy spiritual life there must be spiritual life to injure. There is no poison that will harm a dead man. But holy mother, are there two worlds?  My child, thine heart is a citadel which the foe can ever enter, unless there be a trader within the walls to open the poster and gate. But there is such a trader, Helena, and he is always on the watch. Be thou ever on the watch, too. Yet another matter stands first. Who reigns in thy citadel? Hast thou ever given thine heart to God, maiden? Can I give my heart, holy mother? It seems to me that love is rather like a plant that grows than like a treasure that is given. Thou art right, but the planting must be some time. Hast thou ever asked God to take thine heart? For as a holy man of old hath said, If thou leave me to myself, I shall not give it to thee. I shook my head. It all sounded strange to me. If the usurper is in the citadel, dear child, he will hold the gates against the rightful king. And Helena, there are no traders in his camp. Thou art not a sword nor a shield which can do nothing of itself. But a human creature, with a living will, which can choose either to open the gates to the king or to shut them against his trumpeter when he sends these summons to surrender. Nay, thou not only canst choose, thou must, at this moment, at every moment, thou art choosing. What message hast thou sent back to thy rightful Lord, both by right and purchase? Is it, come thou and reign over me, or is it, go back to thy place, for I will have none of thee? I would willingly not have answered, but I felt it would be to fail in respect to Lady Judith's age and position. I stammered out something about hoping that I should make my salvation some time. My child, disthou ever do anything at any time but now? said Lady Judith. I suppose that is true, for it is always now when we actually come to do it. But holy mother, there is so much to give up if one becomes religious, said I. What is there to give up that thou couldst take with thee into heaven? But there will be things in heaven to compensate, said I. And is there nothing in Christ to compensate? she replied, with a momentary flash in the gray eyes. What is heaven but God? The city had no need of the sun, for the glory of God did lighten her. And temple I saw none in her, for the Lord God the Almighty is temple to her and the Lamb. Lady Sibyl seemed interested, but I must confess that I thought the conversation had assumed a very disagreeable tone, and I wondered how it was that both Lady Judith and my old margarite spoke to me as if they thought I did not serve God. It is very strange when I hear the Holy Mass sung every morning, and I have only just offered another new vein at the Holy Sepulcher. However Easter will soon be here, and I mean to be very attentive to my devotions throughout the Holy Week, and see if that will satisfy Lady Judith. I don't want her to think ill of me. I like her too well for that, though I do wish she would not talk as if she fancied I did not serve God. I am sure I am quite as good as most people, and that is saying a great deal. No, it can never be wrong to hate people. It can't be, and it shan't, and I just wish I could roast that count of Tripoli before the fire in the palace kitchen till he was done to ascend her. I am white, hot, angry, and like Jonah the prophet, I do well to be angry. The mean, fawning, sneaking, interloping rascal. I knew what he meant by his professions of love and friendship. Guy's eyes were shut, but not mine. The wicked, cruel, abominable scoundrel. To climb up with Guy's help, to within an inch of the top where he sat, and then to leap the inch and thrust him out of his seat. I cannot find words ugly enough for him. I hate, hate, hate him. To have supplanted my Guy, after warming himself into the confidence of the Lord King through Guy's friendship, there is the sting. To have carried to the King all the complaints that he heard against Guy, until he, poor helpless senior, had a feel nearly so vexed with him, really was induced to believe Guy harsh and incapable, and to take out of his hands the government of the kingdom. And when he put in that serpent that false Judas, that courtly hypocrite, oh dear, I cannot find words to describe such wickedness, and he is regent of the Holy Land and Guy must kneel to him. I could cut him in slices and enjoy doing it. I'm angry with Melisand, who can find nothing to say but, ah, the fortune of courts, one down today, another up tomorrow. And I'm almost angry with Marguerite, who says softly, hush then my demo-cell. Is it not the good God? No, it is not.  I am sure the good God never made Count Raymond to do such wicked things. Instead of casting Adam and Eva out of paradise, oh why, why did the good God not cast out the devil? Is my demo-cell so much wiser than the Lord? quietly asks Marguerite. I cannot understand it. The old cry comes up to me again. Oh, if I could know, why cannot I understand? And then Lady Judith lays her soft hand on my head and says words which I know come from the Holy Evangelion. What I do, thou knowest not now. I know not, I must not know. I can only stretch forth appealing hands into the darkness and feel nothing. Not like her and Marguerite. They too stretch forth helpless hands into the darkness, but they find God. It must be a very different thing. Why can I die do the same? Is he not willing that I should find him too? Or am I not worthy? I suppose it must be my fault. It seems as if things were always one's own fault. But I do not think they are any better on that account, especially when you cannot make out where your fault lies. Guy behaves like a saint. He does not see any fault in Count Raymond. I believe he won't. Lady Sybil, poor darling, looks very grieved, but not one word of complaint can I get her to utter. As to Amore, when I have quite finished slicing up the count, if he does not mind, I shall begin with him. What does he say but? Well, a great deal of it is Guy's own fault. Why wasn't he more careful? Surely, if he has any sense, he might expect to be envied and supplanted when he had climbed to such a height. If he has any sense? Pretty well for Messiah Amore. End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of Lady Sybil's Choice. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. Lady Sybil's Choice, A Tale of the Crusades, by Emily S. Holt. Chapter 9. Elaine finds more than she expected. And when I know not what thou dost, I'll wait the light above, Dodridge. Both Guy and Lady Sybil are in a state of the highest ecstasy and say that they are abundantly recompensed for all their past disappointments. And this is because they are disappointed just like Amore, but they bear it in as different a style as possible. I think, if I were they, I should consider I had more right to be troubled of the two. For little Heloise is a strong enough child, and is growing almost pretty, while dear Lady Sybil's baby girl is a little delicate thing that the wind might blow away. Of course I shall love her far better, just because she is guys and Sybils, and she crept into the warmest corner of my heart when she showed me her eyes, not Lady Sybil's gentle gray, but those lovely flashing dark eyes of guys, the most beautiful eyes I think that were ever seen. Marguerite is not she charming? I cried. Ah, the little children always are, said the old woman. I don't agree with her. Little children can be great teases. But Marguerite had more to say. My Demosel sees they are yet innocent of actual sin, therefore they are among the best things in God's world. I may be wrong, but I think the good God must have been the loveliest babe ever seen, how I should have liked to be there, if the Holy Mother would have allowed me to hold him in my arms. Ah, I suppose only the holiest saints would be allowed to touch him, said I. I am not so sure if my Demosel will pardon me. She was no saint, surely, that crept into the Pharisee's house to break the casting-bottle, footnote, used to sprinkle perfumes, and footnote, on his feet. Yet the hardest word she had from him was, go in peace. Ah, I think the good God, that his bidding is not, come unto me, all ye that are holy. There are few of us would come, if it were. But come unto me, all ye that are weary, that takes us all in. For we are all weary some time. The lot of a woman is a weary lot at the best. Well, it may be among the villains, said I. I never saw more bitter tears than those of the old lady Deschata Geralt, mother of the lady De-Louis Signon, when her fair-haired boy was brought into her in the bower, with the green weeds in his long bright hair, and the gold broidery of his velvet tunic tarnished by the thick, stagnant water. Early that morning he had been dancing by her, with the love-light in his beautiful blue eyes. And now, when the dusk fell, they laid him down at her feet, drowned and dead, with the light gone out of the blue eyes for ever. Ah, I have seen no little sorrow amongst men and women in my seventy years. But I never saw a woman look more than she did, as if she had lost the light of life. The villains have a hard blot, as the good God knows, but all the sorrow of life is not for the villains. No, no. How oddly she puts things. I should never have thought of supposing that the villains had any sorrow. A certain dull kind of coarse grief or tired feeling, perhaps they may have at times, like animals. But sorrow surely is a higher and finer thing, and is reserved for the nobles. As to Old Marguerite herself, I never do quite think of her as a villain. She has dwelt with nobles all her life, so to speak, and is not of exactly the same common sort of stuff that they are. Yesterday afternoon Lady Sibyl and I were alone in the bower, and she had the baby in her arms. The little creature is to be made a Christian on Sunday. I asked her what name it was to have. I expected her to say either Marie, which is the Lady Queen's name, or Eustace, the name of Guy's mother. But she said neither. She answered Agnes. And she spoke in that hushed, reverent voice in which one instinctively utters the names of the beloved dead. I could not think whose it could be. The name has never been in our house, to my knowledge, and I was not aware of it in Lady Sibyl's line. Does thou not know whose name it is, Helena? asked Lady Sibyl. I fancied she answered my look. No, said I. My dear Lord has been very good to me, she said. He made not the least objection. It was my mother's name, Helena. Oh, said I, enlightened. Lady Sibyl, do tell me. Can you remember the Lady Queen your mother? How old were you when she died? She did not answer me for an instant. When I looked up, I saw tears dropping slowly on the infant's robes. When she died, there was a moment's pause. I, there are more graves than men dig in a churchyard. When she died, Helena, I was six years old. Then you can remember her, I said eagerly. Oh, I wish I could remember mine. I, memory may be intense bliss, she answered, or it may be terrible torture. I can remember a fair face bent down over mine, soft, brooding arms folded round me, loving kisses from gentle lips. And then— Oh, Helena, did my Lord tell thee she was dead? It was kind of him, for he knows. Footnote. I trust it will not be imagined from this that I think lightly of white lies. Romanists, as I rule, are very lenient towards them. And footnote. Lady Sibyl was sobbing. Then she is not dead? I said in a low voice. I do not know, she replied. No one knows. She is dead to us. Oh, why? Why does the Holy Church permit such terrible things? What am I saying? May the good Lord pardon me if I speak against him. But I cannot understand why it must be. They had been wedded nearly ten years, Helena. I mean, my parents, when it was discovered that they were within the prohibited degrees. Why cannot dispensations been given when such things occur? They knew nothing of it. Why must they be parted, and she be driven into loneliness and obscurity, and I—well, it was done. A decree of Holy Church parted them, and she went back to her people. We have never heard another word about her, but those who saw her depart from Jerusalem said she seemed like one whose very heart was broken. And she never came back? I said pityingly. Is it much wonder—answered Lady Sibyl, in a low voice, rocking the child gently in her arms—it would have been much, I think, for the crowned and the anointed Queen of Jerusalem to steal into her capital as de Moselle de Cortenet. But it would have been far more for the wife and mother to come suing to her supplanter for a sight of her own children. No, I cannot wonder that she never, never came back. I was silent for a little while, then I said. Was the Lord King as grieved as she? I can't understand, if so, why they should not have obtained a dispensation and have been married over again. Lady Sibyl shook her head, and I saw another tear drop on the baby's robe. No, Helena, she said, hardly above a whisper. I do not think he was. He had the opportunity of outlying himself with the Caesars. And there are men to whom a woman is a woman, and one woman is just as good as another, or very nearly so. Do men, selling a horse, stop to consider whether it will be as happy with the new master as the old? They do not care, and very often they cannot understand. Hi, I'm Maury as one of that sort. And you think, if she be alive, that she will never come? I asked. I hope she might, but I think she will not. Ah, how have I hoped it? Helena, hast thou wondered how it is that nothing short of absolute impossibility will suffer me to depute to another the daily distribution of the dull at the poster gate to those poor women that come for alms? Canst thou not guess that amongst all the faces I look but for one, for the one that might creep in there, unrecognized, to look on me? And that must never, never go away with a soreness of her heart saying she was not there? Every loaf that I give to a stranger, I say, pray for the soul of Agnes of Anjou. And then if some day she should creep in among the rest, and I should not know her? Ah, but I think I should, if it were only by the mother hunger in the eyes. But if she should, and hear that, and yet not speak, she will say in her heart, Sibyl loves me yet. And if she could only creep one step further, God loves me yet. For he does, Helena. Maybe he has comforted her long ago, but if she should not have found it out, and be still stretching forth numb hands in the darkness, and if I could say it to her? Now thou knowest why I call the babe by her name. I know not where she is, nor indeed if she is on earth. But he knows, and he may let her hear it. If she come to know that I have called my child by her name, she may not feel quite so lost and lonely. I have no other way to say to her, I have not forgotten thee, nor has God. I love thee. I would feign help thee. He loves thee, and is ready to save thee. Who can tell? She may hear. Oh, dear, this is a bad world, said I. Why are people so hard on each other? We are all fellow sinners, I suppose. Ah, Helena, said Lady Sibyl with a sorrowful smile, has thou not found, dear, that the greater sinner a man is himself? Very generally the harder he will be on other sinners, especially when their sins are of a different type from his own. The holier a man is, the more he hates sin, and yet the more tenderly will he deal with the sinner. For as sin means going away from God, so holiness must mean coming near God, and God is more merciful than man, to all who come to him for mercy. Lady Judith came in while the last words were being spoken. I never can quite tell, said I, what sin is. Why should some things be sin, and other things not be sin? Go on, Helena, said Lady Judith, turning round with a smile. Why should so many things be wrong, which I like, and so many things be right, which I do not like? Well, holy mother, it is something like that, said I, laughing. Will you please to tell me why? Because my child, thou hast inherited a sinful nature. But I do not like sin, as sin, said I. Sin temptation has no power over thee. Is it so? Art thou never drawn away of thine own lust and enticed? While I am not perfect, said I, I suppose nobody expects to be. Yet without absolute perfection, Helena, thou canst never enter heaven. Oh, holy mother, cried I. Where art thou about to get it? said she. I am sure I do not know, I replied blankly. Thou shouldst know, my child, she responded gently. Think about it. I cannot guess what she means. I am sure I may think about that for a year and be no nearer when I have done. I have had a great pleasure today in the shape of a letter from Monsignor, our father, addressed to Guy, but meant for us all three. He wrote about six months after we set out, and I should hope he has before now received my letter, which I sent off on the first opportunity after our arrival in the holy city. Lady seems to be well, and Alex has a baby boy whom she means to call after Monsignor, Geoffrey. There is no other special news. L'Val, he says, misses us sorely, and lies at my door with his nose between his paws, as if he were considering what it could all mean. I wonder whether he thinks he comes to any satisfactory solution. The Lord King I hear has been more indisposed for some days past. The Lady Queen is very attentive to him. The Isabel and her Lord have gone through another tremendous quarrel—about what I do not know. Yesterday morning our sister Ashene's second baby was announced, and in the afternoon the holy patriarch baptized it by Guy's name. Amore was in ecstasies with his boy, but alas, in the evening the poor little thing fell into convulsions and barely lived to see the dawn of another day. Amore passed from the climax of triumph to the depths of despair. He growled and snarled at everybody, and snapped at Ashene in particular, as though he thought she had let her child die on purpose to vex him. That she could be in as much distress as himself did not seem to occur to him. If anything could have provoked me more than Amore's unreasonableness it would have been the calm patience with which Ashene took it. There he stalked about, grumbling and growling. Why did you all let the child die, he wanted to know, as if we could have helped it? There is not one of you has any sense. As if he had.  Alex apparently not being a woman. Poor Ashene lay still, a few tears now and then making their way down her white cheeks, and meekly begging her lord and master's pardon for what she had not done. When he was gone she said, I think to anticipate what she saw in the tip of my tongue.  Then do set such store by a son, it is only natural he should be very much distressed. She will persist in making excuses for him. Distressed? Well, said I, but he does not need to be so silly and angry. Natural?  Oh, Lynette, don't, dear, pleaded Ashene, I am beginning to think I have been rather unjust to Ashene when I said there was nothing in her, but it has taken a long while to come out, and it seems to come rather in the form of doing and bearing than of thinking and saying. But that Amore is a most profound donkey no mortal man can doubt, or at any rate no mortal woman. I was awfully startled this morning when Marguerite undrew my curtains and told me that our Lord King Bedouin had been commanded to God. It seems now that for some time past he has been more ill than any one knew except the Lady Queen and his stepmother. What that wicked count of Tripoli may have known, of course, I cannot say, but I am sure he has had a hand in the late King's will. The crown is left to the little King, Bedouin the Fifth, and our sweet symbol is disinherited. What that really means, I suppose, is that the Count is jealous of Guy's influence over his lady, and imagines that he can sway the child better than the mother. There are to be various changes in consequence of the Lord King's death. The Lady Queen returns to her own family at Byzantium. I do hope Lady Judith will not go with her, but I am very much afraid she may. Guy talks about retiring to his city of Ascalon, but though I am sure Lady Sybil will submit to his will, I can see she does not want to leave her boy, though I do not believe she distrusts that wicked Tripoli as I do. I ask Marguerite if she did not feel very angry. No, she said quietly, is my Demoselle very angry? Indeed I am, said I. Does my Demoselle know what are the good Lord's purposes for Monsignor Count Guy? It is more than old Marguerite does. Of course not, but I see what has happened. And not what will happen? Ah, that is not seeing much. But what can happen to put things right again, Margo? Ha! Do I know? I? No better than Monsignor St. Jacob when his son Monsignor St. Joseph sent for his little brother and refused to send the meal until he came. That is so beautiful a history, and so many times repeated in this world. The poor father. He thought all these things were against him. He did not know what the good God was making ready for him. He did not know. And the good God will never be hurried. It is we that are in a hurry, poor child of time. We want everything to happen today. But he, who has eternity to work in, can afford to let things take their time. My Demoselle does not know what old Helwa said to me yesterday. No. Who is Helwa, I said? She is a narrow woman who serves in the kitchen. A panem, oh Marguerite, what can a panem say worth hearing? Or is she a Christian? If to be baptized is to be a Christian, as people always say, then Helwa is a Christian. But if to be a Christian is really to know and follow the Lord Christ, and it seems to me as if the evangel always meant that, then I don't know. I am afraid Helwa does not understand much about that. Oh, if she has been christened, she must be a Christian, said I. Well, what did she say? She said, all things come to him who knows how to wait. It is a Saracen proverb. Well, I do not believe it. Ah, let my Demoselle pardon me, but it is true. Well, said I, half laughing, then I suppose I do not know how to wait. I do not think my Demoselle does, answered Marguerite quietly. Well, thou teach me, Marguerite. Ha, it takes the good God to teach that. I should not think it wanted much teaching. Let my Demoselle bear with her servant. The good God has been teaching it to me for seventy years, and I dare not make so bold as to say I have learned it yet. Why, Marguerite, thou art as quiet and calm and patient as a stone. Ha, not here, she said, laying her hand upon her bosom. Perhaps here and here, touching her eyes and lips, but down there? No. But for what, or for whom, art thou waiting, Marguerite? I asked, rather, amused. Ha, it ought to be only whom. But it is too often what. We are like the little children waiting for the father to come home, but thinking more of the toys and bonbons he may bring than of himself. And then there is another thing. Before we can learn to wait, we must learn to trust. To trust what, Marguerite? I believe we all trust in something, if my Demoselle pleases. A great many trust in themselves, and a great many more trust in circumstances—fate or chance or luck, as they call it. Some few trust in other human creatures, and their waking is often the saddest of all. But it seems as if the one thing we found it hardest to do was to trust the good God. He has to drive us away often from every other trust before we will learn to trust him. Oh, how we must grieve his heart when he has done so much for us, and yet we will not trust him. I wonder what she means. I feel as if I should like to know and could not tell how to begin. The Lady Queen has gone back to her people. And I am so glad Lady Judith has not gone with her. I was sadly afraid she would do. But Melisande is gone, and Messiah Renaud de Montloup, for whom the Lady Queen trusts to obtain some high position at the court of the Byzantine Caesar. I am not at all sorry that Monsieur Renaud is gone. He made me feel uncomfortable whenever I looked at him. I cannot well express my feeling in words, but he gave me a sensation as if nothing stood on anything, and everything was misty and uncertain. I fancy some people like that sort of feeling. I detest it. I like figures, though Amari says it is very un-Ladylike taste, because they are so definite and certain. Two and two make four, and they will make four. Do what you please with them. No twisting and turning will persuade them to be either three or five. Now I like that, far better than some arts, more interesting in themselves, such as music, painting, or embroidery, of which people say yes, it is very fair, very good, but of course it might be better. I like a thing that could not be better. Guy says that is very short-sighted and argues they want of ambition in me. I do not quite see that. If a thing be the best it can possibly be, why should I want it to be better? Oh, but one wants a name, says Guy. One must have a mark to shoot at. If I were besieging a castle and knew beforehand that I could not possibly take it, it would deprive me of all energy and object. There is nothing so devoid of interest as doing something which leads to nothing and is worth nothing when done. Well, I say then, I think if sieges and wars were done away with, it would be no bad thing. Just think what misery they cause. But such an outcry comes upon me then. Amari informs me that he is incomparably astonished at me. Is not war the grandest of all employment? What on earth could the nobles do if there were no wars? Would I have them till the earth like peasants or read and write like monks or sew and dress wounds like women? And Guy says, good-naturedly, oh, one of Elaine's curious notions, she never thinks like other people. But think, I say, of the suffering which comes from war, the bereft widows and fatherless children and human pain and sorrow. Does a woman weeping over her husband's corpse think war grand, do you suppose? Stuff, says Amari. Can't she get another? Would he say if a sheen were to die, nevermind I can get another? Well, I should not much wonder if he would. Once after a rather keen contest of this sort, I asked old Marguerite if she liked war. I saw her eyes kindle. Demoselle, she said, my husband followed his senior to the war and left me ill at home in my cot. He had no power to choose as my Demoselle must know. The night fell in this, senior came home with banners flying and along the village street there were bonfires and rejoicings for a great victory. But my husband did not come. I rose from my sick bed and wrapped myself in a sheepskin and went out to the fatal field. Like a candle in the sunlight, the pain of the heart put out the pain of the body. But I saw that night my Demoselle will not ask. It were not meat to rehearse in the ears of a young noble lady. I do not know how I bore it, only that I did bear, going from one to another in the moonlight and turning my lantern on the dead still faces, ever looking for that face which I feared to find. And at last I found him, my peers, the one love of my young life, where the fight had been the most terrible and the dead lay the thickest. I knew that he had acquitted himself right well for his face was to the foe, and the broken shaft of his senior's pen in was still grasped tightly in his hand. Demoselle there was no funeral pageant, no tabled tomb, no heralds cry for him. Strangers' hands buried him where he lay, as they might have buried the senior's horse, if need were. And there were no whiteweeds in seclusion for me, his young widow, who knelt by my baby's cradle, too miserable for tears. But maybe in those halls where all souls are alike before the king of kings, the voice from the throne said to him, well done. And the voice did verily say to me, if you're not, come unto me and I will give thee rest. Ah, my Demoselle knows now what our old nurse thinks of war. Oh, why must there be such things? How else could a knight win his spurs indignantly demands a moray? But surely the winning of a moray's spurs is not the only thing of any consequence in the world. Does the good God himself take no account of widows, tears, and orphans' wails if only the knights win their spurs? Could not some other way be contrived for the spurs which would leave people alive when it was finished?  So at last, as nobody else, except Marguerite, who is nobody, seems to understand me, I ask Lady Judith what she thinks. My child, she says, he maketh worse to cease unto the ends of the earth. He breaketh the bow and snappeth the spear in thunder and burneth the chariot in fire. The father of the age to come, the prince of peace. It is one of his fairest titles, but not till he comes, Helena. Till then, earth will be red with the blood of her sons and moistened with the tears of her daughters. Let us pray for his coming. But holy mother, that is ages off, said I. Is it, she made answer, has the Lord told thee so much, Helena? Ah, it may be, I know not, but I see nothing else to keep him. It may be that if all the earth would come to him today, he would come to us tomorrow. Holy mother, I do not know what you mean by coming to him. Dear Helena, she said gently, thou wilt not know till thou art ready to come. But I do not understand that, said I. How am I to get ready? If any man thirsts, let him come into me and drink. If thou newest the gift of God thou wouldst have asked of him, and he would have given to thee water of life. Art thou not a thirst? Thus thou not know the gift of God, dear maiden? Then ask him to bestow on thee the thirst and the knowledge. I really do not know whether it was right or wrong, but that night after I had finished my credo and paters and the holy angelical salutation, I ventured to say in my own words, Fair Father, Jesu creased, give me what Lady Judith and Marguerite to talk about. I hope it was not very wicked. I did so tremble, and I do not properly know what this thing is, only that it seems to make them happy. Then why should I not be happy too? I suppose the good God will know all about it, and as he appears to be so condescending as to listen to Marguerite, who is but a villain, surely he will hear me, who am noble. It is so odd that Amore, who is such a simpleton himself, should be perpetually calling me a simpleton. I do think the more foolish people are, the more fond they are of exhorting others not to be silly. It is very funny, but this world is a queer place. It is indeed Lynette, says Guy, with mock gravity, when I make the remark to him. The queerest place I have been in these thirty years. As Guy is scarcely twenty-seven, it may be supposed I cannot help laughing. But there is another queer thing. It does really seem as if villains, at least some villains, had genuine feelings, just like us nobles.  But I know she did not become my mother's nurse until after her husband was dead, so she must have had feelings before that while she was no better off than any other villain. It is very incomprehensible. And I suppose, too, when one comes to think about it, we are all children of Adam and Eva. How did the difference come to begin with? It is very difficult to tell how things began. It is a great deal easier to see how they end. Who would suppose if men had never found out that the great river Danube, which rolls into the black sea, almost like a sea itself in volume, came from the meltings of the ice and snow upon the hills of Switzerland? Ha, says Marguerite when I repeat my thoughts to her. The great God is so rich that he can bring the large things out of the small. We others, we can only bring the small out of the large. That sounds like spoiling things, said I. Men are very apt to spoil what they touch, she answered. The good Lord never touches anything that he does not leave more beautiful. Has he not blessed childhood and manhood by becoming child and man? Is not the earth fairer since he dwelt on it? And the little children dearer since he took them in his arms and blessed them? Ah, he might have cared for me and felt with me just as much if he had never been a man, but it would not have been the same thing to me. And he knew it. When we love one very much, Demozal, we love what he has touched. And if he touch us ourselves, it sends a delicious thrill through us. The good Lord knew that when he took on him our nature with all its sufferings and infirmities, when he touched us everywhere in sorrow and weariness and poverty and hunger and pain and death, we can suffer nothing which he has not suffered first on which he has not laid his hand and blessed it for his chosen. Thanks be to his name. It's like honey, sweetening everything. And the things that are bitter and acid wants the most sweetening. So the good Lord chose poverty and pain. Ease and riches are sweet of themselves. I have heard Father Eudice read of one or two feasts where he was. He blessed joy as well as sorrow, perhaps lest we should fancy that there was something holy in pain and poverty in themselves and something wicked in being comfortable and happy. Some people do think so after all, but I have heard Father Eudice read a great deal more of funerals than feasts where the blessed Lord was. He seemed to go where people wanted comforting, much oftener than where they were comfortable. He knew that many more would sorrow than rejoice. What strange eyes Marguerite has. She can look at nothing, but she sees the good God. And the strangest thing is that it seems to make her happy. It always makes me miserable. To think of God when I am bright and joyous is like dropping a black curtain over the brightness. Why cannot I be like Marguerite? I ought to be a great deal happier than she. There is something wrong, somewhere. Then, of course, there must be something holy in poverty, voluntary poverty, that is, or why do the monks and nuns take the vow of poverty? I suppose there's nothing holy in simply being poor like a villain, and if our Lord really were poor when he was on earth, that must have been voluntary poverty. I said as much to Marguerite. Demozal, said she, every man who follows our Lord must carry his cross, his own cross, not somebody else's. And that means I think the cross which the good Lord lays on his shoulders. The Blessed Christ himself did not cut his own cross, but we others are very fond of cutting our crosses for ourselves instead of leaving the good God to lay them on us. And we always cut them of the wrong wood. We like them very light and pretty with plenty of carving and gilding. But when the good Lord makes the crosses, he puts no carving on them, and he often hues out very rough and heavy ones. At least he does so for the strong. He makes them light sometimes for the weak, but there is no gilding, only the pure gold of his own smile, and that is not in the cross itself, but in the sunlight which he sends upon it. But my Demozal will find, when men sort out the crosses, the strong walk away with the light ones and the rough and heavy fall to the weak. The good Lord knows better than that. But we don't all carry crosses, Marguerite, said I, only religious persons. Marguerite shook her head decidedly. Demozal, all that learn of the good Lord must bear the cross, he said so. If any man serve me, let him follow me. And again, if any man will come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. Father Yudis read them both. My Demozal sees any man. That must mean all men. While I cannot understand it, I only feel more puzzled than ever. I am sure it would not make me happier to carry a heavy cross. Yet, ladies Yudis and Marguerite are happy. I can see they are. Religion and good people seem to be full of contradictions. How is one to understand them? End of chapter nine. Chapter 10 of Lady Sybil's Choice. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. Lady Sybil's Choice, A Tale of the Crusades by Emily S. Holt. Chapter 10, Preparing for the Struggle. He that hath a thousand friends hath not a friend to spare, and he that hath one enemy shall find him everywhere. I have thought and thought about Lady Judith's question concerning perfection. And as I expected, I cannot see my way through it at all. And what is more, I do not see how to reconcile it with what she said herself of Sister Eudoxia. So this morning I took the liberty of asking her what she meant. Lady Judith smiled and replied, Worse thou puzzled, Helena? Yes, Holy Mother, said I, very much. I am glad of it, she answered. I wanted to puzzle thee and make thee think. I have been thinking a great deal, I said, but I cannot think my way out of the labyrinth. We must take counsel of Holy Ritt to find our way out, answered Lady Judith. And she laid her hand on her Greek Bible, which is a very handsome book, bound in carved wood, and locked with a golden clasp. She unlocked it with the little key which hangs from her girdle and said, Now listen, Helena, in the days when our Lord dwelt on Middle Earth, there were certain men amongst the Jews, called Pharisees, who were deemed exceedingly holy persons. So exact were they in the fulfillment of all duties that they did not reckon their tithes paid, unless they taxed the very pot herbs in their garden. Yet our Lord said to his disciples, if your righteousness surpasses not that of the Pharisees, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Likely enough, said I, surely any christened man could easily be better than he than Jews. But he said more, Helena, be ye then perfect, even as your father, he in the heavens, is perfect. Perfect as the good God is perfect, I exclaimed. That is our standard, she responded, we are not to rest short of that. But we cannot, you yourself said it, Holy Mother, when we were talking of Sister Eudoxia. I did, my child, let us take two more passages from Holy Writ and see if they cast any light upon it. The end of the law is Christ, under righteousness, to every believer, and ye are in him complete. I do not understand them, Holy Mother. I have heard thee speak, Helena, of thy favorite legion, and ye are in him complete. Helena, of thy favorite legion, of the two good knights of Greece. What was it that Sir Pytheas agreed to do for Sir Damon? To suffer death in his stead if he did not return home at the appointed time. Suppose that Sir Pytheas had suffered death before Sir Damon's return, and that when Sir Damon came back, the Lord King had put him to death also. What would thou call that? Oh, that would never have been just, said I. But why? Sir Damon had been sentenced to die. Yes, but when another had died for him, oh, what would be cruelly unfair? In other words, Sir Damon would be reckoned to have died as so far as the law was concerned in the person of his friend. Exactly, said I. And this friend, remember, had voluntarily given his life. Now, this is the point to which I want to bring thee. The death of Sir Pytheas would have been reckoned to Sir Damon, and this last would have been accounted to have paid the full penalty to which he was sentenced and to be thenceforward a free and blameless man. Of course, said I, there could have been no other result. Now, Helena dear, this is what Christ has done for all believers. His death is reckoned to them, and they are thenceforward free and blameless, perfect as he is perfect, complete in him. Not in themselves, mind, never. In themselves, they are sinners to the last hour of life. But in him, on account of his atoning death and holy obedience, God's holy law reckons them perfect as himself. So that, in one sense, they are perfect forever. In another sense, they are utterly imperfect so long as they live. For by one offering he hath perfected in perpetuity the hallowed ones. But holy mother, I asked, what do you mean by in him? My child, she answered, I doubt if any but God knows all that is meant by that deep word, and what man knows cannot be told to another. It can only be felt. But it means light and life and joy, Helena, the very light that God is, the life of all the ages, the joy with which no stranger intermedaleth. Only taste it and see. No draft of sin can be truly sweet to the again after one drop of that wine of heaven. I am quite delighted to find that Monsieur Tarrestin de Monluc, who has exasperated me for nearly two years past by playing the broken-hearted lover, has got his heart mended again. I was beginning to entertain a desperate wish that he would take the cowl, for it made me feel a perfect wretch whenever I looked at him, and yet what could I have said to Guy but what I did? I feel indescribably relieved to hear that he is going after his brother to Byzantium and intensely delighted to find that he is privately engaged to Melisand de Courtenay. I believe she will make him a good wife, which I never could have done, and it is such a comfort to know that he has given over caring about me. It does seem not unlikely that we may have war. There are flying rumors of Saladin's drawing nearer. May the good God avert it. I believe Amore would tell me that I was a simpleton if he heard me say so. The holy patriarch, Heraclius, and the Lord Roger, master of the temple, have set forth on a pilgrimage to the shrines of the West. They intend to visit Campostella and Canterbury, among others. Count Raymond has been behaving rather better lately, that is, we have not seen quite so much of him. A letter from Alex came to hand last week, but there is nothing of interest in it except that everyone is well. She says her child begins to walk and can already prattle fluently, which called forth a growl from Amore, who wants to know why everybody's children thrive but his. It is not true for little Heloise is really an engaging child and has excellent health. But then, says Guy, aside to me with arched eyebrows, she's only a girl, a poor little, good for nothing. I know Guy does not think so for he is so devoted to his little Agnes, and Heloise is certainly the prettier your child. But neither of them is equal to the little king who is a most beautiful boy and has the quaintest sayings ever heard from a child. There now, did anybody ever see anything like these men? Miss Artriston sent forth yesterday morning, and what should he say to Guy, who told me with his eyes full of fun, but, Demoiselle Elaine will find out that it does not do to trifle with a man's heart. She will doubtless be angry at my defection, but I have borne long enough with her Caprice, and have now transferred my affections to one who can be truer. Was ever mortal creature so misrepresented? Why the man must have thought I did not mean when I said, my Caprice indeed, trifle with a man's heart, and as if affection can be transferred at will from one person to another. Guy seemed excessively amused with my exclamations. What a conceited set of people you men must be, said I. Well, we are rather a bad set, answered Guy, laughing. A little allame, thou art so funny. Pray, what is there funny about me, said I, and please tell me, Guy, why men always seem to fancy that women do not know their own minds. Well, they don't, say Guy.  Just so, answered he, but those, thou seeest, are the generality of women. Rubies are scarce, pebbles are common. Only among women, said I. Possibly not, responded Guy, looking very much amused. Poor de Montluc appears to be a ruby in his own eyes, and I presume he is only a pebble in line. Let us hope that Demoiselle Melisande will consider him a gem of priceless value. Well, I am sure I have no objection to that. But another idea occurs to me, which is by no means pleasant. Since other people are always misunderstanding me, can it be possible that I am constantly misunderstanding other people? I do think I have misunderstood a sheen, and I am sorry for it. I like her a great deal better now than I ever expected to do, and I almost admire that quiet endurance of hers, partly because I feel amore so trying, and partly I suspect because I have so little of the quality myself. But is it, can it be possible that I am misunderstanding Count Raymond? I do not think so. Why should I think of a beautiful serpent whenever I look at him? Why should I feel a sensation of which I cannot get rid, as if that dark handsome face of his covered something repugnant and perilous? It is not reason that tells me this. It is something more like instinct. Is it a true warning to beware of the man or only a foolish, baseless fancy of which I ought to be ashamed? And I cannot tell why. It has lately assumed a more definite and dreadful form. A terror besets me that he has some design on Lady Sibyl. He knows that she is a rightful heir of the crown, and that, I do believe, through his machinations, she has been set aside for her own son. If his wife were to die, the Holy Saints defend it. I believe him capable of poisoning Guy in order to marry Sibyl and to make himself king of Jerusalem. Am I very wicked that such ideas come into my head? Yet I do not know how to keep them out. I do not invite them, yet they come. And in the Count's manner to Lady Sibyl, there is a sort of admiring, flattering deference which I do not like to see. Something quite different from his manner towards her sister. I do not think she is conscious of it, and I fancy Guy sees nothing. Oh, dear, dear, there is something very wrong in this world altogether, and I cannot see how it is to be set right. I asked Lady Judith this evening if she believed in pre-sentiments. She answered, yes, when they come from God. Ha, but how is one to know? Ask him to remove the feeling if it be not true. I will try the plan, but if it should not answer. The heats of summer are so great and the Holy City is considered so very unhealthy that the Regent proposes to move the Lord King to the city of Acre until the hot weather is over. Guy and Lady Sibyl are going to stay at Ascalon, a city which is Guy's own and close to the coast, though not actually a seaport like Acre. I cannot help being glad to hear that there will be something like a week's journey between Guy and Count Raymond. I may be unjust, but I do not know. I have offered seven patters every evening that the good God might take the thought out of my heart if it be wicked, but it seems to me that it only grows stronger. I told Lady Judith that her plan did not answer, that is that the pre-sentiment did not go. What is this thought which troubles the little one? Said she. Holy Mother said, I do you ever utterly mistrust and feel afraid of some particular person without precisely having a reason for doing so? Lady Judith laid down her work and looked earnestly at me. I generally have a reason, Helena, but I can quite imagine. Who is it my child? Do not fear my repeating what thou mistell me. It is the Lord Regent, said I. I feel afraid of him, as I might have attained a tiger, lest the subdued nature should break out. I do not believe in his professions of friendship for Guy, and I do not at all like his manner to Lady Sibyl. Lady Judith's eyes were fixed on me. I did not know, Helena, how sharp thine eyes were. Thou werest a child when thou came as tear, but I see thou art one no longer. So thou hast seen that? I thought I was the only one. It struck me with a sensation as of sickening fear to find that my suspicions were shared, and by Lady Judith. What is to be done? I said in a whisper. Shall I speak to Guy or Lady Sibyl? Lady Judith's uplifted hand said unmistakably, no. Watch, she said, watch, and pray, and wait. Oh, no speaking, at least not yet. But till when, I asked. I should say till you all return here, unless something happened in the interim. But if thou dost speak, little one, do not be surprised if nobody believe thee. Very impulsive men, like thy brother, rarely indulge suspicion or mistrust, and Sibyl is most unsuspicious. They are likely enough to think the fanciful and unjust. It would be too bad, said I. It would be very probable, she responded. Holy Mother said I, what do you think he aims at doing? I wanted to know, yet scarcely dared to ask, if the same dread had occurred to her as to me. I think, she said unhesitatingly, he aims at making himself king, by marriage either with Sibyl or with Isabel. But he would have to murder his own wife and the lady's husband, cried I. No need in the first case. The Lady Countess suffers under some internal and incurable disorder, which must be fanatal sooner or later. It is only a question of time. Her physicians think she may live about two years, but not longer. And so long as she lives, thy brother's life is safe. But if she were to die, then it might be well to warn him. But we know not, Helena, what may happen, and ere them. The Lord reigneth my child, it is best to put what we love into his hand and leave it there. But how do I know what he would do with it, I said fearfully. He knows, and that is enough for one who knows him. It is not enough for me, said I sadly. Because thou dost not know him. Helena, art thou as much afraid of the good God as of the Lord Regent? Not in the same way, of course, Holy Mother, I replied, because I think the Lord Regent a wicked man. No, but to the same extent. I don't know. I think so, said I, in a low voice. Of Christ, that died and that intercedeth for us, afraid of him, Helena? Oh, Holy Mother, I don't know, I said, bursting into tears. I am afraid it is so, and I cannot help it. I cannot tell how to alter it. I want to be more like you and old Marguerite, but I don't know how to begin. Will thou not ask the Lord to show thee how to begin? I have done, but he has not done it. Lady Judith laid her hand on my bowed head, as if to bless me. Dear Helena, she said, do not get the idea into thine head that thou wilt have to persuade God to save thee. He wishes it a great deal more than thou. But he sometimes keeps his penitents wading in the dark basilica outside, to teach them some lesson which they could not learn if they were admitted at once into the lighted church. Trust him to let thee in as soon as the right time comes. Only be sure not to get weary of knocking and go away. But what does he want to teach me, Holy Mother? I do not know, my child. He knows. He will see to it that thou art taught the right lesson if only thou wilt have the patience to wait and learn. Does God teach everybody patience? Said I, sighing. Indeed he does. And perhaps there is scarcely a lesson which we are more slow to learn. I shall be slow enough to learn that lesson, I am sure, said I. Lady Judith smiled. Inattentive children are generally those that complain most of the hardness of their tasks, said she. We were both silent for a while when Lady Judith said quietly, Helena, what is Christ our Lord to thee? I am not sure that I understand you, Holy Mother, said I, Christ our Lord is God. Good. But what is he to thee? I felt puzzled. I did not know that he was anything more to me than to everybody else. Does thou not understand? Then tell me, what is Monseigneur, the Count of Ascalon, to thee? Guy, I asked in a little surprise. He is my own dear brother, the dearest being to me in all the world. Then that is something different from what he is to others. Of course, I said rather indignantly, Guy could never be to strangers what he is to me. White Holy Mother, with all deference, you yourself know that, he is not that to you. Thou hast spoken the very truth, said she. But Helena, that which he is to thee and not to me, that dearest in all the world, A, in all the universe, my child, Christ is that to me. I looked at her and I saw the soft, radiant light in the gray eyes, and I could not understand it. Again, that strange, mortified feeling took possession of me. Lady Judith knew something I did not. She had something I had not, and it was something which made her happier than anything had yet made me. There was a gulf between us, and I was on the rocky, barren side of it, and she, on the one waving with corn, and verdant with pasture. It was not at all a pleasant feeling, and I could see no bridge across the gulf.  I suppose that makes the difference. Yet I did not believe that, though I said so. Old Marguerite was no nun, and she was on the flowery side of that great gulf, as well as Lady Judith. And if Lady Sybil were there also, she was no nun. That was not the difference. No maiden was Lady Judith's quiet answer, nor dost thou think so. I hung my head and felt more mortified than ever. Does thou want to know it, Helena? Holy Mother, so much, I said, bursting into tears. You and Marguerite seemed to me in a safe walled garden, guarded with men and towers, and I am outside in the open champagne where the wolves are and the robbers, and I do not know how to get into you. I have been round and round the walls that I can see no gate. Dear child, said Lady Judith, Jesus Christ is the gate of the Garden of God, and he is not a God afar off, but close by. Has thou asked him and doth it seem as though he would not hear? Before thou say so much, make very sure that nothing is stopping the way on thy side. There is nothing but love and wisdom and faithfulness on his. What can stop the way, I said. Some form of self-love, she replied. It has as many heads as the Hydra. Pride, indolence, covetousness, passion, but above all, unbelief. Some sort of indulged sin. Thou must empty thine heart, Helena, if Christ is to come in, or else he will have to empty it for thee. And I advise thee not to wait for that, for the process is very painful, yet I sometimes fear it will have to be the case with thee. Well, said I, there is nobody in there but Guy and Lady Sybil, and a few more a good deal nearer the gate. Does our Lord want me to empty my heart of them? I thought that, of course, being religious, she would say yes, and then I should respond that I could not do it. But she said, dear, the one whom our Lord once deposed from the throne of thy heart is Helene de Louison. What, myself? Thyself, said Lady Judith in the same quiet way. I made an excuse to fetch some gold thread for I did not like that one bit. And when I came back, things were even better than I hoped, for Lady Isabel was in the room, and though Lady Judith will talk of religious matters freely enough when Lady Sybil is present, yet she never does so before her sister. Lady Judith is entirely mistaken. I am quite sure of that. I don't love me better than anyone else. I should think myself perfectly despicable. Amore does, I believe, but I don't, no indeed. She is quite mistaken. I scarcely think I shall be quite so glad as I expected that Lady Judith is going to stay in the holy city. I do like her, but I don't like her to say things of that kind. Marguerite, I said an hour or two later, does thou think I love myself? My damsel does not think herself a fool, quietly answered the old woman. No, of course not, said I. I know I have brains, how can I help it? But does thou think I love myself better than I love other people? We all love either ourselves or the good God. But we can love both. Marguerite shook her head, ha, no, that would be serving two masters, and the good God himself says no one can do that. I did not like this much better. So after I finished my beads, I kissed the crucifix, and I said, sir God, show me whether I love myself. Because, though I do not like it, yet perhaps if I do, it is best to know it. We reached Ascalon a week ago, making three short days' journey of it, so as not to over-fatigue the little ones.  I brought Marguerite and Beartrod only to wait on me. Lady Isabel prefers to stay at Hebron, which is only one day's journey from the holy city. She and Messiah Humphrey quarreled violently about it, for he wished to go to Acre, and wanted her to accompany him. But in the end, as usual, she had her own way, and he will go to Acre, and she to Hebron. The night before we set forth, as I was passing Lady Judith's door, her low voice said, Helena, my child, will thou come in here? I want a word with thee. So I went into her cell, which is perfectly plain, having no hangings of any sort, either to the walls or the bed. Only a benetiae, footnote, holy water vessel, and footnote, of red pottery, and a bare wooden cross affixed to the wall. She invited me to sit on her bed, then she said, Helena, unless thou seest some very strong reason, do not speak to the count, touching the count of Tripoli, until we meet again. While I thought I should not, said I, but holy mother, will you tell me why? We may be mistaken, she answered, and if not, I am very doubtful whether it would not do more harm than good. After all, dear maiden, the shortest cut is round by heaven. Whenever I feel doubtful how far it is wise to speak, I like to lay the matter before the Lord, and ask him to speak for me, if he sees good. He will make no mistake, as I might, and he can tell secrets without doing harm, as probably I should. It is the safest way, Helena, and the surest. I should be afraid, said I, but of course, holy mother, for you. Yes, she said, answering my half-expressed thought, it is a hard matter to ask a favor of a stranger, especially if he be a king, but where he is thy father. Does thou understand me, maiden? I only too well.  Should I never find the bridge across? We lead such a quiet, peaceful life here. Some time ago I should have called it dull, but I am tired of pageants and skirmishes and quarrels, and so it is rather a relief for a little while. Lady Sybil, I can see, enjoys it. She likes quiet. Amore fumes and friends. I believe a sheen likes it, but won't say so, because she knows Amore does not. I never saw the equal of a sheen for calm contentedness. All right, never mind it. It does not signify, or the style of her stockphrases when anything goes wrong, and won't it be all the same a hundred years hence? That is a favorite reflection with her. Oh, dear a sheen, I could not help saying one day. I do hate that pet phrase of thine. A hundred years hence, that will be the year of our Lord, 1285. Why, thou and I will be nowhere then. Nay, I suppose we shall be somewhere, was a sheen's grave answer. Oh, well, don't moralize, said I, but thou knowest if we were always to look at things in that style, nothing would ever signify anything.  A sheen laughed, but a sheen's laughter is always quiet. I think thou dost not quite understand me, Elaine, she said. I do not use such phrases of things that do matter, but of those that do not. I should not say such words respecting real troubles, however small. But are there not a great many events in life of which you can make troubles or not as you choose? An ill-dressed dish, a disappointment about the color of a tunic, a misunderstanding about the pattern of a trimming, a cutting one's finger, and such as these, is it not very foolish to make one's self miserable about them? What can be more silly than to spend half an hour in fretting over an inconvenience which did not last a quarter? My dear a sheen, it sounds very grand, said I. Why dost thou not teach a maury to look at things in that charming way? He frets over mistakes and inconveniences far more than Guy and I do. A sheen's smile had more patience than amusement in it. For the same reason Elaine that I do not teach yonder crane to sing like a nightingale. I can guess that parable. It would be mere waste of time and labor. Guy did not forget my birthday yesterday. He gave me a beautiful coral necklace which one knows is a good against poison. I will take care to wear it whenever Count Raymond is present. Lady Sybil gave me a lovely ring set with an opal and if I were at Acra and had a bay leaf to wrap round it, I would go into the Count's chamber invisible and listen to him. A sheen's gift was a silver pommander with a chain to hang it by. A maury, just like him, forgot all about it till this morning and then gave me a very pretty gold filler gray case containing the holy evangel of St. Luke to hang around my neck for an amulet. Am I really 19 years of age? I begin to feel so old and yet I am the youngest of us. I do think that nothing really nice ever lasts in this world. The Baron de Montluc arrived here last night from Byzantium with all sorts of bad news. In the first place Saladin with his panem army has re-entered the holy land and is marching as men fear upon theopolis. If he do this he will cut off Acra from the holy city and the young Lord King cannot reach his capital. The Baron sent a trusty messenger back to Acra to Count Raymond urging him to hasten to the holy city with the king and lose not an hour in doing it. The coast road is still clear or he could come by sea to Jaffa. Messiah de Montluc sent his own signet as a token to Count Raymond which ring the Count knows well. Guy has ordered a salt to pack up and return without loss of time to the holy city where he will take the command till Count Raymond arrives. Now Elaine how wouldst thou like a siege? Triumphantly ask Amari. May all the holy saints avert such a calamity. But there is if possible even worse behind in as much as a foe without the gates is less formidable than a traitor within them. The patriarch I will not call him holy this time and the Lord Roger had returned as far as Byzantium a few days before Messiah de Montluc left that city and it comes out now what all their fine talk of pilgrimage meant. They have been at the court of England on purpose to offer the crown of Jerusalem to King Henry the father. Seeing, say they, the distracted state of the kingdom, the peril of pine and war and the fact that King Henry is the nearest heir of King Foucaise of Anjou. Well upon my word as if the crown of Jerusalem were theirs to offer. It seems to me too but everybody even Guy says that it is only one of my queer unaccountable notions that since King Foucaise of Anjou has no right to the crown except as the husband of Queen Melisand so long as her heirs remain in existence they should be preferred to his heirs by another wife. But Amari laughs at me for saying this. He says of course when Count Foucaise married Queen Melisand and became King all her right passed to him and she was then forth simply his consort, his children having as much right as hers. It does not seem just and fair to me but everyone only laughs and says I have such absurd fancies. Why, what would be the good of marrying an heirs at all? says Amari, if you had to give up her property when she died before you. Still I do not see that it is just and I wonder if sometimes the queer ideas of one century do not become the common ideas of the next. But Amari seems to think that notion exquisitely ridiculous. Nonsense, Elaine says he. It was a simple matter of failing arrangement. Don't go and fancy thyself the wisest woman in the world. Thou hast the silliest ideas I ever heard. Well I don't, Amari, said I, any more than I fancy thee the wisest ma'am. Gregory laughed and told Amari he had a Roland for his Oliver. End of chapter 10.