“It would be a shame to me,” said Maghar, “to sneak off, like a coward, and leave our friends and Christian soldiers, when their forces are few, and every warrior counts. Have I not my armor? I shall find shield and spear on the battle-field on some poor fellow who has already fallen in the fray. Do not fear, sister! Go back to Christern’s cottage. There you will be safe; and I will return in a few hours.” So saying, he led Sybil back into the forest to the path leading to Christern’s cottage; gave the book into her hands; and, kissing her good-bye, he ran out of the woods as fast as the weight of his armor would allow. [Illustration: SYBIL’S WATCH.] But Sybil did not return to the cottage. She was too anxious about her brother; and, going to the entrance of the wood, she crouched among the trees, where she was hidden from view, and watched the progress of the fight. She was ready to fly if the tide of battle brought the armies too near. But they seemed to be gradually moving away from her. She soon singled out her brother. He had secured a spear and shield, and mounted a riderless horse. In a few minutes he was lost in the throng, and she saw him no more. Her mind was filled with sad forebodings. This Infidel army had invaded the country, and laid it waste; had killed her parents, and overthrown, and utterly ruined the beautiful castle that had been her home. A few things had been saved by old Christern, a much loved servant of the family, and these constituted the property of Maghar and Sybil. Old Christern’s cottage, in the depths of the forest, was the refuge of the orphans. There they had lived for several weeks, and no way of retrieving their fortunes seemed open to them. Maghar was a fine scholar. His father had had him taught to read his own language and Latin, and to write a very beautiful hand. That was the extent of his knowledge; and it was a great deal at a time when very few of the richest people knew their letters. And now, in their poverty, there seemed to be very little use for his learning. Nobody cared anything about it. He might copy manuscript for some learned man, and get a living this way, for printing and paper had not then been invented; and all books were written on parchment. But Maghar had a contempt for a _clerk_, as he called a copyist, and did not fancy this method of supporting his sister and himself. Nevertheless, the two were that day on their way to the abode of a great and learned man to see if he wished anything of this kind done; and if he would buy their only book—a Latin volume, written on parchment, and beautifully illuminated and bound in wooden covers.