"
"DO I not know, CAN I not estimate the value of minstrel's praise
and of lady's love?" retorted the hermit, in a tone which for a
moment seemed to emulate the enthusiasm of Richard himself.
"King of England," he continued, extending his emaciated arm,
"the blood which boils in thy blue veins is not more noble than
that which stagnates in mine. Few and cold as the drops are,
they still are of the blood of the royal Lusignan--of the heroic
and sainted Godfrey. I am--that is, I was when in the world--
Alberick Mortemar--"
"Whose deeds," said Richard, "have so often filled Fame's
trumpet! Is it so?--can it be so? Could such a light as thine
fall from the horizon of chivalry, and yet men be uncertain where
its embers had alighted?"
"Seek a fallen star," said the hermit, "and thou shalt only light
on some foul jelly, which, in shooting through the horizon, has
assumed for a moment an appearance of splendour. Richard, if I
thought that rending the bloody veil from my horrible fate could
make thy proud heart stoop to the discipline of the church, I
could find in my heart to tell thee a tale, which I have hitherto
kept gnawing at my vitals in concealment, like the self-devoted
youth of heathenesse.
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