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As soon as Lord Boppo had retired to his simple, airy dwelling, where he reposed almost as much in the open air as formerly he had done during his campaigns, he gave instructions to his attendant to admit no person except on emergent magisterial business. Then seating himself before a very plain oaken chest, almost black with age, he took from his vesture a large key.

“Let me refresh my memory,” he mused, “with a view of the old and honored emblems.” Then opening the chest, he took out an enwrapped and folded white mantle. Gashed it was, and fissured, and rent; and it bore some faded blood-stains; and as the old hero reviewed each token of former eagerness to give and take, he pointed in silence to each storied mark of battle. Placing his finger on one and another, he mused, and thought of the special memory, attached to every one. “I will not boast of these evidences,” he said solemnly. “I have long doubted of the justice and the wisdom that arrayed us against either Moslem or Livonian. Those men held their territories of ancient right; and although eminent persons condemned both to death for opinions, I must concede to both most conspicuous chivalry, sterling honor in