The young warrior smiled complacently, cast his eyes up to the roof, and then around him, with the air of a person contemplating his own perfections, and then looked Fitzarnulph in the face. “Good Constantine,” said he, with his colour slightly heightened, “I know not whether you speak in jest or earnest, and, in good sooth, it matters little. But this I do know, and say fearlessly, that I have not fought for the Venetian Republic and for the Emperor of Constantinople without making my name, in some degree at least, known to fame; and that had I castles, and baronies, and manors, and retainers, I should little fear to occupy an eminence even more perilous than that to which you allude. But a younger son, without land and without followers, I feel strongly that Fortune beckons me to other lands than that of my birth, and that there are many countries in Christendom where my sword would be welcome. All over Christendom are wars and rumours of wars. Not to mention what the Venetians and the Emperor of Constantinople are doing against the Greeks, I know that in France war is going on against the Albigenses; in Spain against the Moors; in Germany, Otho and young Frederick, a prince of rare promise, are contending for the imperial crown; in Sweden, King Eric, surnamed the Lisper, is at war with the Tole Kungers; Waldemar, King of Denmark, is contending with Albert of Lauenburg, who is essaying to make himself master of Holstein; Lescus, the King of Poland, is valiantly resisting the Tartars; John de Brienne, King of Jerusalem, is defending himself desperately against the Turks. Mayhap I have some difficulty in choosing, under such circumstances, whither to direct my course; but no fear have I of finding a welcome wherever swords are drawing and blows being exchanged. It is only in mine own country that I am without honour; and, by the mass! I see not wherefore I should sacrifice the prospects of carving out a principality with my sword in order to risk my head in an enterprise into which, as it seems to me, you are being hurried rather by the promptings of despair than the beckoning of hope.” Fitzarnulph sat for a few moments in an attitude of reflection, and appeared to muse deeply; then suddenly he raised his head, and addressed the young warrior with an expression of peculiar earnestness on his countenance. “Accompany me to my house,” said he, “and I will there show such reasons for venturing upon this enterprise that you will not only agree to take part in it, but consent to do so in the character of its leader.” Walter Merley smiled as if gratified, so far as his vanity was concerned, with the prospect of heading an enterprise for the regeneration of England, and, rising with his companion, they attended Fitzarnulph to his house. When, three hours later, Walter Merley left Fitzarnulph’s house, and walked through the narrow streets, he was the wily citizen’s dupe. CHAPTER LVIII WRESTLING FOR THE RAM