"My little Lynette!" he said. "My little, little girl! The one bud of my one love! Must I let thee go? Ha, well!—it is for thy welfare. The good God bless thee, _mignonne_, and Messeigneurs and Mesdames the saints. Please God, little maiden, we shall meet in Jerusalem." "Meet in Jerusalem?" I said in surprise. This was news to me—that Monseigneur meant to take the cross. "Ay," said he softly, "in the ’_Syon Aurea, ut clarior oro_.’ There is an upper City, my child, which is fairer than the lower. Jesu, of His mercy, bring us both there!" "Amen!" said Father Eudes. "Dame Mary, pray for us poor sinners!" There was a great bustle after that, and noise, and clashing; and I do not remember much distinctly, till I got into the litter with Bertrade, and then first Amaury set forth on his charger, with his squires after him, and then Marguerite behind Robert on horseback, and Perette behind Amaury’s varlet, who is a cousin of hers; and then my litter moved forward, with the armed men around and behind. I just saw them all clearly for one moment—Alix with her lips set, looking at us, as if she were determined not to say a word; and Messire Raymond smoothing his moustache; and Guillot with an old shoe poised in the air, which hit my fore postilion the next minute; and Umberge with that fair false smile with which she deludes every one at first sight; and Monseigneur, with his arms folded, and the tears fairly running down his cheeks, and his lips working as if he were deeply grieved. Just for one minute there they all stood; and I think they will make a picture in my eyes till the end of time for me. And then my litter was drawn out of the Castle gate, and the horses tramped across the drawbridge, and down the slope below: and I drew the curtain of the litter aside, and looked back to see my dear old home, the fair strong Castle of Lusignan, growing less and less behind me every moment, till at last it faded into a more dim speck in the distance, and I felt that my long and venturesome journey had begun. Oh, why do people never let us know how much they love us, until just as we unclasp hands and part? Do they always know it themselves? And I wonder whether dying is anything like this. Do men go a long journey to God, with an armed escort of angels, and do they see the world go less and less behind them as they mount? I will ask Margot what she thinks. She is but a villein, in truth, but then she has such curious fancies. I have asked Marguerite, and she shakes her head.