eril, retained all the gaiety of soul which distinguished the
French chevaliers from the thoughtful Saxon, and the haughty and
somewhat grim Norman. 'Heed them not. Let this rascal canaille bawl and
bray as they please. By St. Denis, you and I will live to talk of this
day's exploits in the chambers of our ladies.'

'May God and good St. James grant it,' said Joinville, gravely.

'But who comes hither, and in such a plight?' asked the Count of
Soissons, suddenly, as a Crusader, mounted on a strong horse, came
galloping from the direction of Mansourah--his face wounded, blood
gushing from his mouth, the reins of his bridle cut, and his hands
resting, as if for support, on his charger's neck.

'In truth,' replied Joinville, after examining the horseman, 'it is the
Count of Brittany;' as, closely pursued by Saracens, the wounded warrior
gained the bridge, and ever and anon turned round and shouted mockingly
to his pursuers.

'By St. Denis,' exclaimed the count, 'one thing is certain: he is not
afraid of his pursuers.'

And almost as the Count of Soissons spoke, the Count of Brittany was
followed by two warriors, who made their way through the Saracens,
literally smiting to the earth all who came in their way. Nothing, it
seemed, could resist their progress; and their path was tracked with
blood. On they came, scornfully scattering their foes till they reached
the bridge, when reining up where the Lord of Joinville was posted, they
stopped to take breath, after their almost superhuman exertions. One had
in his hand a battle-axe; the other a sword. The battle-axe was stained
red with gore; the sword was hacked till it looked 'like a saw of dark
and purple tint.' One was Bisset, the English knight, the other was the
Grand Master of the Temple. The horses of both were wounded all over;
the helmets of both were deeply dinted. Bisset's mail was almost hacked
to pieces; the Templar's vestments were torn to rags, his cuirass
pierced, and his eye and face wounded and bleeding.

'You bring tidings of woe?' said the Count of Soissons.

'Woe, in truth,' answered Bisset; for the grand master could not even
muster voice to speak; 'of all who rode into Mansourah this morning, not
a man, save ourselves, lives to tell the tale.'

'And what of the Count of Artois, sir knight?' asked Joinville.

'I know not,' replied Bisset, briefly; 'the count disappeared early, and
doubtless died with the comrades of his jeopardy.'

'No,' interr