r our tombs. If Christendom
chooses to be supine, let Christendom suffer, say I. At any rate, I am
not going to weep for what may take place after I am turned into dust."

"That sounds all very well, Sir Giles," Ralph Harcourt said, "and I have
no argument to advance against it, though I am sure there is much to be
said; but if the bailiff, or the chaplain, or indeed any of the elders,
had heard you say so, I have no doubt you would have had a fitting
reply."

Sir Giles tossed his head mockingly. "I shall fight neither better nor
worse, friend Harcourt, because it may be that someday the Moslems are,
as the bailiff seems to think, destined to lord it here. I have only
promised and vowed to do my best against the Moslems, and that vow only
holds good as long as I am in the flesh; beyond that I have no concern.
But what are we staying here for, wasting our time? It is the hour for
those of us who are going, to be starting for the ball given by Signor
Succhi; as he is one of the richest merchants in the town, it will be a
gay one, and there is no lack of fair faces in Rhodes. It is a grievous
pity that our elders all set their will against even the younger members
of the community joining in a dance. It was not one of the things I
swore to give up. However, here in Rhodes there is no flying in the face
of rules."

Three or four of the other young knights were also going.

"What are you thinking of doing, Gervaise?" Harcourt asked.

"I have nothing particular to do, Ralph, except that, first of all, I
must write a letter to Suleiman Ali and hand it to the bailiff, praying
him to send it off by the first vessel that may put in here on her way
to Acre. If I do not do it now it may be neglected, and I promised to
write directly I got here. I will not be half an hour, and after that I
shall be ready to do anything you like."

In less than that time, indeed, he rejoined Ralph. "Now what shall we
do with ourselves? What do you say to a stroll through the streets? I am
never tired of that."

"I like better to go by way of the roofs, Gervaise. The streets are
badly lit, and although they are busy enough in some quarters, they are
so narrow that one gets jostled and pushed. On the terraces everything
is quiet. You have plenty of light and music, and it is pleasant to
see families sitting together and enjoying themselves; and if one is
disposed for a cup of wine or of cool sherbet, they are delighted to
give it, for they all