From Crete we sailed to Rhodes, and thence to Cyprus. They all say that I am an excellent sailor, for I feel no illness nor inconvenience at all; but poor Bertrade has been dreadfully ill, and Marguerite and Perette say they both feel very uncomfortable on the water. At Cyprus is an abbey of monks, on the Hill of the Holy Cross; and here Amaury and his men were housed for the night, and I and my women at a convent of nuns not far off. At the Abbey they have a cross, which they say is the very cross on which our Lord suffered, but some say it is only the cross of Ditmas, the good thief. I was rather puzzled to know whether, there being a doubt whether it really is the holy cross, it ought to be worshipped. If it be only a piece of common wood, I suppose it would be idolatry. So I thought it more right and seemly to profess to have a bad headache, and decline to mount the hill. I asked Amaury what he had done. "Oh! worshipped it, of course," said he. "But how if it were not the true cross?" I asked. "My sister, wouldst thou have a knight thus discourteous? The monks believe it true. It would have hurt their feelings to show any doubt." "But, Amaury, it would be idolatry!" "Ha, bah!" he answered. "The angels will see it put to the right account—no doubt of that. Dear me!—if one is to be for ever considering little scruples like that, why, there would be no end to them—one would never do any thing." Then I asked Marguerite if she went up to worship the holy cross. "No, Damoiselle," said she. "The Grey Friar said we worship not the cross, but the good God that died thereon. And I suppose He is as near to us at the bottom of the hill as at the top." Well, it does look reasonable, I must say. But it must be one of Marguerite’s queer notions. There would be no good in relics and holy places if that were always true. This island of Cyprus is large and fair. It was of old time dedicated by the Paynims to Venus, their goddess of beauty: but when it fell into Christian hands, it was consecrated anew to Mary the holy Mother. From Cyprus we sailed again, a day and a half, to Tyre; but we did not land there, but coasted southwards to the great city of Acre, and there at last we took land in Palestine. Here we were lodged in the castle, which is very strong: and we found already here some friends of Amaury, the Baron de Montluc and his two sons, who had landed about three weeks before us. Hence we despatched a letter to Guy. I was the writer, of course, for Amaury can write nothing but his name; but he signed the letter with me. Messire Renaud de Montluc, who was setting out for the Holy City, undertook to see the letter safe. We were to follow more slowly.