"Know, lordling," he began, "that your servant, Matteo of Antioch, is the son of a Christian knight and a Saracen lady, who was of the lineage of the Paynim Princes of Emessa. I was born in one of the Frank castles on the edge of the desert beyond the Dead Sea, a child of love and sorrow. In those days, before Jerusalem had fallen to the infidel, there was endless war between the Franks of the Holy Land and Saladin, and it chanced that in a foray into Saracen country a party of Christian knights captured a convoy of high-born Saracen maidens on their way from Emessa and the cities of Roum to Damascus. My father's share of the spoils was the lady who became my mother. "Now, it chanced when I was a few years old that some of my mother's brethren learned of her fate, and they laid plans with Saladin for vengeance. My father's castle was built in a place whence it commanded the caravan routes of the Saracens from the north and the south, and Saladin was glad to help any effort to capture it. My mother's brethren concerted in secret, and when the time was ripe they swept down upon the castle in the dead of night. They climbed the walls whilst the warder slept--he may have been bribed--and the first the garrison knew of them was the sight of their bloodied scimiters. "My father fought to his death with only his sword for armour, and when my mother spurned his murderers they slew her over his body, for a shame to their house and a reproach to Islam. I was saved by the diligence of a squire of my father's, who let me down from the wall and fled with me to Antioch. There I was taken under the protection of the Prince, who reared me with his pages and saw to my schooling in arms. But the story of my birth had reached his ears, and when I attained the grade of squire, I found that knighthood was denied me, for that I was but half of Christian blood and there was a blot on my name." The eyes of the jongleur smouldered with that fire Hugh had seen in them when he first burst his way through the greenwood men. His fingers smote the strings with gusty passion. Through all his words there ran the soul-torn resentment of the outcast, who felt himself wronged and powerless to resent it. "It is not for me to chant of my deeds," he went on, "I bore lance and sword in the last fights for the Holy Sepulchre. I learned the arts of war and music under the great Lion-Heart. 'Twas an idle word of praise from him made me resolve to wipe out the stigma put upon me by practising arms as a jongleur, instead of as an unsuccessful aspirant for knighthood. Messer Hugh, you may ask any knight of Outremer, the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers, any lord of the land--and he will tell you there is no shame in the past of Matteo of Antioch." Hugh reached out his hand. "I need not ask," he said. "The answer is in your face, Messer Matteo. And now your boon?"