ers from
France and Syria, ere venturing to march into Egypt, the utmost disorder
began to prevail in the camp. The armed pilgrims, left to inactivity in
a delightful climate, under a bright sky, and surrounded by beautiful
scenery, appeared once more to forget the oaths they had taken, and
indulged in still worse riot and debauchery than when they wintered in
Cyprus. Gambling was their daily occupation; and the rattle of the
dice-box was constantly heard through the camp. And men with the Cross
of Christ upon their shoulders had the name of the devil continually on
their tongues. Nor was this the worst. Vice reigned all around in its
grossest form; and the saint-king complained mournfully to the Lord of
Joinville, that, within a stone's-throw of his own pavilion, houses of
infamous repute were kept by his personal attendants.

At the same time, the jealousy between the French and English grew more
and more intense, and threatened disastrous consequences. In vain did
Louis exert his influence to restrain the insolence of his countrymen.
The English were constantly reminded of their inferiority as a nation,
and exposed to such insults as it was difficult to brook. Bitter taunts
and insinuations of cowardice were unhesitatingly used to mortify the
island warriors; and men who had disobeyed their king's mandate, and
forfeited lands and living to combat the Saracens, were, day by day,
driven nearer the conclusion that they would ere long be under the
necessity of drawing their swords against their fellow-soldiers of the
Cross.

Of all the French Crusaders, however, none were so foolishly insolent as
Robert, Count of Artois, brother of King Louis. From a boy the French
prince had been remarkable for the ferocity of his temper, and had early
signalised himself by throwing a cheese at the face of his mother's
chivalrous admirer, Thibault of Champagne. For some reason or other, the
Count of Artois conceived a strong aversion to the Earl of Salisbury,
and treated Longsword with the utmost insolence. And, though the Earl
only retaliated by glances of cold contempt, it was known that his
patience was wearing away, and it was feared that there would yet be
bloodshed.

'By my father's sword!' said he, speaking partly to himself, partly to
Walter Espec, one day after returning to his tent, 'I fear me that my
spirit will not much longer brook the reproaches of that vain prince.
Even this day, as he spoke, my hand stole to the hilt