The sails
of their rare ships might be seen in the Egyptian waters; the camels of
their caravans might thread the sands of Baalbec, or wind through the
date-groves of Damascus; their flag was raised, not ingloriously, in
many wars, against mighty odds; but 'twas a small people, and on one
dark night the Lion of Judah went down before Vespasian's Eagles, and in
flame, and death, and struggle, Jerusalem agonized and died. . . . Yes,
the Jewish city is lost to Jewish men; but have they not taken the world
in exchange?"
Mused thus Godfrey de Bouillon, Marquis of Codlingsby, as he debouched
from Wych Street into the Strand. He had been to take a box for Armida
at Madame Vestris's theatre. That little Armida was folle of Madame
Vestris's theatre; and her little brougham, and her little self, and
her enormous eyes, and her prodigious opera-glass, and her miraculous
bouquet, which cost Lord Codlingsby twenty guineas every evening at
Nathan's in Covent Garden (the children of the gardeners of Sharon have
still no rival for flowers), might be seen, three nights in the week at
least, in the narrow, charming, comfortable little theatre. Godfrey had
the box. He was strolling, listlessly, eastward; and the above thoughts
passed through the young noble's mind as he came in sight of Holywell
Street.
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