innocently decoyed from
his watch, and in his absence, the banner, left with but his dog to
guard it, was stolen by Conrade. For his failure of duty. Sir Kenneth
was condemned to immediate death, but Saladin, who in the disguise of
an Arab physician was in the English camp, and who had rescued the
King from death by fever, urgently interceding, his life was spared.
Saladin took Sir Kenneth to the camp of the Saracens, and knowing his
worth and valor, having previously had knightly encounter with him in
the desert, disguised him as a Nubian slave, and sent him as a
present to Richard with the hope that he might in some way discover
by whom the banner had been stolen. Attending Richard as a slave Sir
Kenneth saved the king from the assassination which the Grand Master
had instigated, and aided by the instinct of his dog, also disguised,
he detected the thief in Conrade. Richard thereupon, at once charged
Conrade with the theft, and challenged him to mortal combat. The King
was prevented by the Council of the Princes from fighting in person,
but having divined in the Nubian slave the former Knight of the
Leopard, he permitted Sir Kenneth to fight in his stead, that the
knight might atone for the dishonor of being faithless in his watch.
Conrade's cause was espoused by the Grand Master, who had been his
confidant, and by the Duke of Austria. The encounter was appointed to
take place at the Diamond of the Desert, in the territory of Saladin,
who was asked to act as umpire. It had been stipulated that but five
hundred Saracens should be present at the trial; Saladin, however,
having been apprised of further plotting on the part of the Grand
Master, for safety's sake caused a larger attendance of his
followers. Sir Kenneth had long loved Edith Plantagenet, but being
known to her only as a poor and nameless adventurer, he had not yet
openly avowed his love.

XXXI. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

(AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.)

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.--1770-1850.

Sweet Highland girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks; this household lawn;
These trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode;
In truth, together do ye seem
Like something fashion'd in a drea