'Why not, Gray?' remarked Mr. Easdale. 'You told her, you know, about the cheque, and she means to help you spend it.'

'Or take care of it,' said Amy. And old Madge may want me. Perhaps I may be able to do more with her than you. It might be important, Rob.'

'It might, perhaps. Then there is the fever to think of. I am straight from the house.'

'The Earl has no fever now,' said Mr. Easdale, ' and we do not believe it to have been of an infectious kind.'

'In Mr. Treneer's house, yes. That locality is not fresh, like ours,' replied Mr. Easdale. But you need not scare anyone after the steam

across.

'Lady Adela is soon to go to her parents again,' said Amy.

Rob, she is so sweet. But we shall never meet upon the same terms again. She used to ask me to come and sit with her, and we used to place ourselves near the windows and look at the palazzo, and have such pleasant talks. She had no heart for visitors, she said, while the Earl was ill. They say she is engaged to Lord Newlyn, only she cannot bear the idea of leaving her parents childless.'

'I must really leave now, as I am not proposing to be off with you to England,' said Mr. Easdale, taking a hand of each. My best wishes for your good success, and take care to do your best with the ancient dame who is giving you so much trouble.'

They parted. And soon a short cough from the steamer told Mr. Easdale that he had only just ensured his safety in time.

(To be continued.)

THE CHILD'S CRUSADE.

BY EVELYN TOD.

CHAPTER III.

THE MARCH OF THE ARMY.

A STRANGE host it was that Vendôme beheld assembled on the banks of the Loire one morning in August, 1212. It was the trysting day of the youthful Crusaders; and no less than thirty thousand * children of every age and rank, from every part of France, were gathered together-little things of eight or nine, whose mothers had wept over and kissed them for the last time that morning, and who gazed with childish pride at the *Essent circiter triginta millia.'-v. p. 459, Alberici Monachi Trium Fontium Chronicon, edit. Leibnitz.

bright Red Crosses on their shoulders-tall youths of fifteen or sixteen, some of whom, unless report belied them, came rather because they found the bonds of parental or feudal discipline irksome, than from any burning religious zeal; and among them all, our runaways, Raoul and Aloys, who mixed freely in the crowd, strong in the conviction that, even were the Sire de Cervoles to track them to Vendôme, he could hardly face the storm that would rise against him if he attempted to force away two vowed Crusaders. No one looked more proud or hopeful than Aloys, whose usually pale face was slightly flushed with excitement, as he made his way to the painted car whercon stood the boy-leader of the host. Raoul was more subdued than his wont; he was thinking of his mother. His father, a bold knight and a loyal vassal, but one of the harshest of men, was less to him than De Cervoles; but the one stipulation he had made, on consenting to follow Aloys, was that he must bid farewell to his mother. The poor Dame de Saint-André, going forth on some charitable errand among her husband's tenants, had been startled by Raoul, apparently dropped from the skies, rushing at her, giving her a long embrace, and disappearing again. But she settled in her own mind that the Sire was hunting in the neighbourhood, and that therefore her impetuous son had paid her a flying visit.

A vision of her thin, worn, but sweet face, was floating before him; and it was not dispelled till he found himself close beneath the Leader's station. Then he looked up, and saw a boy about twelve years old, arrayed in a sort of priestly habit, who was addressing the multitude. Small, slight, fair-haired, a cross grasped in his right hand, that wondrous child was pouring forth, in a wild sweet voice, sentence after sentence of passionate oratory. Written down and coldly considered, his discourse would very likely have been incoherent enough; but when listened to, with all the advantages that thrilling tones and angel features could give, its power was irresistible. Women melted into tears, men listened devoutly, young faces kindled with warlike ardour, and even the doubting Raoul believed, as the Infant Prophet declared his commission from Heaven to go to the relief of Jerusalem, and deliver it by the hands of the Innocent.

Who was this Prophet? No answer can be given; all that is known is, that he and another child, even younger,* each led an army forth, the one from Germany to Genoa, the other from Vendôme to Marseilles. But in later years, when the disastrous termination of the enterprise had opened his disciples' eyes, fearful tales gathered about his name. Two young clerks, so ran the story, prisoners in the hands of the chief of the Assassins, the Old Man of the Mountain,' had been released by him on promise that they would lure to slavery the children of France; one of them, at least, was supposed to re-appear in the person of the so-called 'Master of Hungary,' who nearly forty years later, with the same fluent

* Quidam minus decem annorum infaus.'-p. 623, Sicardi Episcopi Cremonensis Chronicon, Muratori, vii.

VOL. 9.

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PART 50.

persuasiveness, the same professedly celestial commission, the same dark compact with Heathenesse, gathered the shepherds and herdsmen of France to rescue Saint Louis from the Musselmans.

Wildly improbable as these stories are, they are all the old chroniclers can tell us; and we must be content to remain in ignorance, though we may well acquit this poor boy of the hypocrisy and treason charged upon him, and believe him rather to have been an earnest imaginative child, who had brooded over the desecration of the Holy City till his brain turned, and wiser heads than his caught the madness from him. By this time, De Nogent would scarce have dared to speak slightingly of the Children's Crusade, for half France, priest and layman, noble and churl, were firm believers in it, and would have resented scorn as blasphemy.

The Leader's exhortation was finished, the last vows had been sworn, the last crosses donned, the last farewells spoken, and the army began its march-thirty thousand clear young voices raising their monotonous plaintive chant Lord Jesus, restore to us thy Holy Cross.'

Marseilles was the destination of the pilgrims-a long and weary way in that hot summer weather; but hearts were stout and hopes high, and a welcome awaited them at every town. Kind-hearted people gladly gave the young Crusaders food and lodging; and if a few dropped off, fresh recruits poured in at each halting-place. It was true that there were men of evil lives among them, who perhaps came at first with intent to gain absolution for their sins, but who soon began to scent their prey; and every day there were more cries of complaint from children, who had been deprived by them of the food and money they had either brought with them or received as gifts from the faithful; and every day the voice of the young Prophet seemed to have less power over these robbers.

More than once Raoul, who, gentle-born as he was, had bent his pride to accept the charity offered him, found himself plundered in this way, and after a first attempt at resistance, learnt that it was wiser to suffer in silence. Things became yet worse when the pilgrims reached the arid south of France, when scorching sun and clouds of dust by day, and mosquitoes by night, harassed the luckless army. Water, too, was scarce; wolves prowled about, ready to pounce on any straggler; and the stragglers were many. The younger ones, of course, were the first to flag; and in pathless wood or burning plain, child after child sank down with hunger, thirst, or weariness, and was left to perish.

Raoul kept up his heart, and struggled on, even when his feet were bleeding, and his whole life seemed to be scorched up by that terrible sun, with the same determination that he had shewn in smaller matters at Château Cervoles: he tried to cheer his companions with the sort of talk he had often heard among men who had seen service-how in every army the weaklings dropped off by scores during the first campaign, and how one must get seasoned, and even the sun of Palestine would be nothing when one was once accustomed to it. Yet do what he could, Raoul could

hardly refrain his tears when he saw the friends he had made on the march lie down to die from utter exhaustion. But Aloys was undismayed. His voice rang the clearest in the chant, his smile was bright, and his spirit unbroken, though day by day he grew paler and thinner, and more apt to stumble at small obstacles, more willing to lean on Raoul's strong arm. 'I am not much of a warrior yet, Raoul,' he said, half laughing; I shall mend in time.'

Raoul shook his head, and made no answer. He never was more thankful in his life than when he heard they were drawing near Marseilles; and when the sea was at last visible, the Ten Thousand Greeks could hardly have uttered a more joyful cry.

'Yes,' said a lad near him, with a heavy sigh, 'it looks cool yonder. May the Holy Saints bring us there alive, for we have thirty miles of sand and sun yet.'

'Courage! we can manage that,' said Raoul hopefully. 'Where's Loy?' He cast his eye down the rear ranks, where he had last seen Aloys; for of late the two friends had rather avoided each other, feeling too wretched to talk.

'Little De la Ferté?' said a young noble of fifteen, with the selfish indifference bred of suffering. 'Why, he, or some one like him, dropped five minutes ago.'

He had no need to speak twice; Raoul's slow limp was exchanged for a hasty stride, as he faced about and sped back on the way they had come. A child was lying across the track; and as he came up he recognized but too well the black locks whose sheen had long been dimmed by the dust of travel, and the white upturned face.

He knelt down by Aloys' side and endeavoured to rouse him: 'O Loy, Loy, look up-speak to me!'

Aloys raised his head, and made an attempt to stand; in a moment he sank back again, with his hand pressed on his forehead.

'Art thou hurt, dear Loy?'

'My head pains me so,' murmured Aloys. And I am so tired.'

Raoul looked aghast; he had not the faintest idea what to do. Wine he had none; no water was in sight. All around the arid plain and the sky of burning blue met his gaze; in the distance he saw the childarmy on its march, too far off now for a cry to reach it, even if a cry would have been regarded. He had often heard of Crusaders dying in the desert, and in the last week or two he had done more than hear; was that to be his companion's fate? In sheer desperation he spoke roughly-Fie on thee, Loy! to turn faint-heart at the last. Get up.'

Aloys meekly took the offered hand, and rising to his feet, walked a step; then he dropped to one knee.

'Indeed I cannot help it, Raoul,' he said through his tears; 'I cannot walk.'

'Aloys, it is life or death!' cried the young Crusader vehemently.

"Then I must die,' said the poor child, drooping his head. Go on, Raoul.'

But Raoul gave no heed to the last words. He lifted the slight form in his arms, and carried it to a bush, which afforded a little shelter from the rays of the sun. There he laid Aloys down, resting the head on his own knee, and considered what was to be done next.

One or two of the robber-followers of the army passed by, but Raoul's gay dagger and gold-clasped belt had fallen a prey to them long before this, and he was not worth the plundering; a few careless glances or scoffing words were all they bestowed on him. Aloys never ceased imploring him to go on, reminding him of his vow, and bidding him leave him to die; while Raoul answered soothingly, but firmly, that he must stay with him; but by degrees the entreaties grew more and more impassioned, the language more confused, and at last a wild piteous cry for his father to come and take him away, startled Raoul into the knowledge that Aloys was delirious.

Saint-André almost wrung his hands in despair as he heard his friend wandering in fever, now murmuring his vow of pilgrimage or the chaunt of Domine Jesu; now fancying himself at Cervoles, laughing and disputing with his comrades; now calling on the father he had never known, and the mother who had long been dead. He will be better when the sun goes down,' said Raoul to himself; but the shadows grew longer and longer, and there was no change; while afar off a sound smote on the listener's ear which chilled his very blood-the howl of a distant wolf. Bitter remembrances crowded into the boy's mind—the mother he had left to weep for him, the authority he had so often set at naught, the pilgrimage he had undertaken, as his conscience told him, in disobedience, or at best, in a spirit of adventure and bravado; and almost for the first time in his life, Raoul did look seriously at his conduct, and his prayer for forgiveness was more than a customary form.

Hark! there was a noise of jingling bells; and Raoul, with a sudden spring of hope, laid Aloys' head down, and rising to his feet, flew rather than ran in the direction of the sound. A train of baggage-mules was moving slowly over the plain, attended by some half-dozen servants, while in the rear of all, mounted also on a mule, rode a man of about fiveand-thirty, whose dress and general appearance denoted him to be a rich merchant.

'For the love of Heaven-' began Raoul, catching the mule's bridle in his determination to be heard.

6

'Stand off, young lad,' interposed one of the serving-men, rather officiously pushing Raoul away. Beggars should keep their distance.' Saint-Andre's eyes flashed; but after all, travel-stained, haggard, and almost barefooted as he was, the mistake was excusable.

'Nay, Pierre,' said the merchant mildly; let the boy tell his tale.' 'I have a companion hard by, well-nigh dying of fatigue and thirst,' cried Raoul eagerly. As ye are Christians, bring him where he may