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 Think thou no evil of those Christians, father!— They were still kind.

Rai. They speak of truce?

The Knights. Even so. Of truce between The Soldan and our King.

Rai. Let him who fears Lest the close helm should wear his locks away, Cry "truce," and cast it off. I have no will To change mine armour for a masquer's robe, And sit at festivals. Halt, lances, there! Warriors and brethren! hear. I own no truce— I hold my life but as a weapon now Against the infidel! He shall not reap His field, nor gather of his vine, nor pray To his false gods—no! save by trembling stealth, Whilst I can grasp a sword! Wherefore, noble friends, Think not of truce with me!—but think to quaff Your wine to the sound of trumpets, and to rest In your girt hauberks, and to hold your steeds Barded in the hall beside you. Now turn back, [He throws a spear on the ground before them. Ye that are weary of your armour's load: Pass o'er the spear, away!

They all shout. A Chatillon! We'll follow thee—all! all!

Rai. A soldier's thanks! [Turns away from them agitated. There's one face gone, and that a brother's! (Aloud.) War!— War to the Paynim—war! March and set up On our stronghold the banner of the Cross, Never to sink! [''Trumpets sound. They march on, winding''

You come at last! And she—where left you her? The Paynim maid?

Gas. I found her guides, my lord, Of her own race, and left her on the way To reach her father's tents.

Rai. Speak low!—the tale Must rest with us. It must be thought she died. I can trust you.

Gas. Your father trusted me.

Rai He did, he did!—my father! You have been