mare, renovated by her bath and pasture,
and vaulting on her back, was in a few minutes bounding over his native
hills.

CHAPTER 13

In the meantime let us not forget the Prince of Athens and the Lady
Iduna. These adventurous companions soon lost sight of their devoted
champion, and entered a winding ravine, which gradually brought them
to the summit of the first chain of the Epirot mountains. From it they
looked down upon a vast and rocky valley, through which several mule
tracks led in various directions, and entered the highest barrier of the
mountains, which rose before them covered with forests of chestnut
and ilex. Nicaeus chose the track which he considered least tempting to
pursuit, and towards sunset they had again entered a ravine washed by a
mountain stream. The course of the waters had made the earth fertile
and beautiful. Wild shrubs of gay and pleasant colours refreshed their
wearied eye-sight, and the perfume of aromatic plants invigorated
their jaded senses. Upon the bank of the river, too, a large cross of
roughly-carved wood brought comfort to their Christian hearts, and while
the holy emblem filled them with hope and consolation, and seemed an
omen of refuge from their Moslemin oppressors, a venerable Eremite,
with a long white beard descending over his dark robes, and leaning on
a staff of thorn, came forth from an adjoining cavern to breathe the
evening air and pour forth his evening orisons.

Iduna and Nicaeus had hitherto prosecuted their sorrowful journey almost
in silence. Exhausted with anxiety, affliction, and bodily fatigue, with
difficulty the daughter of Hunniades could preserve her seat upon her
steed. One thought alone interested her, and by its engrossing influence
maintained her under all her sufferings, the memory of Iskander. Since
she first met him, at the extraordinary interview in her father's
pavilion, often had the image of the hero recurred to her fancy, often
had she mused over his great qualities and strange career. His fame, so
dangerous to female hearts, was not diminished by his presence. And now,
when Iduna recollected that she was indebted to him for all that she
held dear, that she owed to his disinterested devotion, not only life,
but all that renders life desirable, honour and freedom, country and
kindred, that image was invested with associations and with sentiments,
which, had Iskander himself been conscious of their existence, would
have lent redoubled vigo