"To all strangers in all lands," it read. "Be it known that the Most Sacred, Holy and Christian Sovereign, Alexius, Emperor of Rome, Lord of Constantinople, Thrace, Macedonia, Greece, Scythia, Hungary, Bithynia, Armenia, Anatolia, Cappadocia, Paphlagonia, Mesopotamia, the Islands of the Sea, Jerusalem and the lands beyond, Augustus, hath commissioned his trusty servant, Andrea Mocenigo, to fare forth from the harbour of the Golden Horn in the Imperial dromon Kyrie Eleison and to sail the seas to the realm of England, there to deliver the Emperor's message to the King who hath succeeded him men called Lion-Heart and to bring back with him the daughter of the Emperor's right trusty servant, the Grand Acolyth of the Empire, Sir Cedric Halcroft, in such state as would be accorded a daughter of the Imperial Court. Christ save us all!" "Well-spoken, well-spoken," cried Sir Godwin warmly. "His Majesty doth my brother great honour." "None stands higher in the confidence of the Augustus than the Grand Acolyth," replied Mocenigo, with a low bow to Edith. "And all the Court await with expectation the coming of Sir Cedric's daughter." Hugh glared at the Emperor's Ambassador, wroth at the flush that tinted Edith's cheek. "After all, 'tis no more than is fitting for her," he said haughtily. "I have heard you say often, Sir Godwin, that she hath in her veins the blood of King Harold and the Sainted Edmund." Sir Godwin laughed. "True, lad, but it ill becomes your Norman blood to prate of our Saxon lineage." It was Hugh's turn to flush. "Good blood is good blood," he muttered. "No Norman denies it. How many lords of my race have wooed your womankind?" "Nay, now, that issue is buried, Hugh." Sir Godwin banished the argument with a wave of the hand. "In the haste of our greetings I have forgotten to present you to my guest. Messer Mocenigo, I make known to you my neighbour, the Lord Hugh de Chesby. His lands march with mine." "Young sir, I am honoured." Mocenigo bowed from his supple hips, his cap sweeping the rushes. To Hugh it seemed there was a touch of irony in the exaggerated courtesy. But his resentment was forgotten in the man's next words. "De Chesby? Surely, that is a name familiar to the folk of Outremer!" "You know my father, Messer Mocenigo?" asked Hugh eagerly. "Not the great Sir James?" "Yes, Sir James de Chesby--'the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre' he was called in the Holy Land." The Italian gave Hugh a sidelong look out of his heavy-lidded eyes. "It was never my fortune to know your father," he answered. "But he was indicated to me once in the streets of Tripoli. A stout knight and of matchless fame! The jongleurs still sing of his deeds. 'Tis a vast pity, young sir, he is not with us to-day to fend off the Paynims." Hugh stepped closer on the dais. "Do you think him dead?" he asked tensely. Mocenigo made a gesture of surprise.