“The Betrothed” opens with the year 1187—the time of the Third Crusade—when Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, preached the crusade from castle to castle, from town to town, awaking the inmost valleys of his native Cambria with the call to arms for the recovery of the Holy Sepulcher. As a connecting link between the stories we will say that the soldiers of the First Crusade, after years of hardship and suffering, at last accomplished their vows. Antioch and Jerusalem yielded to their arms, the Holy Sepulcher was redeemed from infidels. Those who returned to their homes recounted their triumphs, and all Europe was aglow with new zeal. Forty-five years later, in the year 1142, a Second Crusade was organized against the impending dangers which threatened Palestine and Jerusalem. The warlike West was again in arms; but this crusade was more unfortunate than the first. The crusaders were again compelled to endure the outrages and perfidies of the Greek. As in the First Crusade, the Christian armies dragged in their train a great number of children, women, and old men, who could do nothing toward victory but greatly augmented the disaster of defeat. The piety and heroism of the First Crusade had degenerated into a love of show and military splendor. “That which was still more injurious to discipline,” to quote from the admirable “History of the Crusades,” by J. F. Michaud, “was the depravity of manners in the Christian army, which must be principally attributed to the great number of women that had taken arms and mixed in the ranks of the soldiery. In this crusade there was a troop of Amazons, commanded by a general, whose dress was much more admired than her courage,” and whose gilded boots procured her a name which we will not copy from the historian’s pages. Forty years of struggle pass away in Palestine, and at the time of the opening of our story Henry the Second of England, Richard the First, and Philip of France, determine on renewing the Holy War. Moved by the eloquence and enthusiasm of Baldwin, there is a general cessation of hostilities between the Welsh princes and their warlike neighbors on the Marches of England. But one castle, known as the Garde Doloureuse, was not so fortunate. Its owner was Raymond Berenger. The hand of his daughter was asked in marriage by one of the Welsh chieftains. The compliment was declined. Raymond Berenger, in accordance with a rash promise, gave battle upon the plain and was slain. The castle was assaulted, but faithfully defended by an honest Fleming, inspired by the heroism of the orphaned daughter. Before the battle, Scott gives us a fine picture of the Welsh bards, and an admirable idea of life in the mountain fastnesses of Wales. His description of the defense of the castle is so graphic that we seem to walk the ramparts with the soldiers, and listen to the counsel of its defenders. Hugo De Lacy, Constable of Chester, arrives in time to raise the siege of the castle,