"But the Emperor Alexius hath denied all knowledge of my father's fate," cried Hugh. "He hath offered his help--hath rendered it. Our King Lion-Heart himself pressed the case. And the Commander of the Emperor's Varangian Guards is Sir Cedric Halcroft, brother of my neighbour, the Lord of Blancherive and a boyhood friend of my father. He hath interested the Emperor in our suit. In all sooth, he must have heard if trickery bested my father." "Not so," the jongleur disagreed. "I know Sir Cedric, and a braver, stouter heart never wore mail, but he is a soldier, bluff and honest--a thought dull-witted, too, like all your Saxons. By the very nature of his office he mixes not in the politics of the Court. He stands apart. A more unlikely aid you cannot find. He would believe whatever he was told. For the rest--fair sir, you know not these Greeks. A treacherous race, without honour, chivalry or virtue, and none of them more conscienceless than their Emperor, who reached the throne by overthrowing and blinding the brother who ransomed him from the Saracens." "Then you think----" Hugh hesitated. "I would recommend that you begin your quest in Constantinople," said Matteo. "The road to the Holy Land leads through Byzantium. From there you can journey at need to Tripoli and Antioch, to the Land of the Assassins, to Jerusalem and Damascus, Emissa and Baalbec. But go first to Constantinople." Hugh sat hunched down in his chair, twisting the alehorn on the table in front of him, his brows bent in thought. It was many minutes before he spoke, and whilst he thought, Matteo the jongleur watched him betwixt draughts of ale. "I like your advice," said Hugh suddenly. "You are frank to say you are guided by instinct, and I trust you for it. Now, I would crave your opinion in another matter." "Such as it is, you may have it, lord," the jongleur answered. "I spoke to you on the road of an enemy who sent yon varlets against me. Hast ever heard in Outremer of one Andrea Mocenigo, who holdeth the confidence of the Emperor Alexius?" "Andrea Mocenigo!" repeated Matteo. "There is no strangeness about that name, Messer Hugh. A greater rascal--and a defter--never drew breath." "You know him, too?" There was astonishment in Hugh's voice. Matteo laughed. "I would not have you think me a boaster, fair sir," he said quaintly. "I have lived but some thirty years, 'tis true, but in that time I have travelled Outremer from Babylon to Constantinople. There are few men of note I have not sung before or exchanged gests with, and we jongleurs soon learn the inner natures of those we meet. "This man, Mocenigo, is a renegade Venetian, exiled for stabbing the nephew of a Doge. He should have died for such a crime, but he hath powerful relatives, and so gained liberty. He is an agent of the Emperor Alexius, and if rumour is truth, a spy of the Sultan of Babylon at times. In sooth, he is no one to put your trust in."