THAT year Saladin was victor in Syria and the Kingdom of Jerusalem fell. Many a baron, knight, and footman was slain that year in the land over the sea! Those who could escape left that place of burning heat and Paynim victory. Another crusade they might go, but here and now was downfall! A part survived and reached their homes, and a part perished at sea, or in shipwreck on strange shores. Sir Eudes de Panemonde, an old man now and bent, came home to his castle and fief. With him came his son, Sir Aimar, a beautiful and brave knight, all bronzed with the sun, with fame on his shield and crest. With them came a third knight, bronzed too by the sun, with fame on his shield and crest. He had been Garin de Castel-Noir, and then Garin Rogier, and now, for five years, Sir Garin of the Golden Island,—Garin de l’lsle d’Or,—known in the land over the sea for exploits of an extreme, an imaginative daring, and also for the songs he made and sang in Frank and English fortress halls. He was knight and famed knight, and three emirs’ ransoms stood between him and the chill of poverty. Two esquires served him. He had horses,—better could not be bought in Syria! He had brought off in safety men-at-arms in his pay. He was known for wearing over his mail a surcoat of deep blue, and on the breast embroidered a bird with outstretched wings. He was all bronzed and rightly lean of face and frame, strongly-knit, adventurous, courteous, could be gay and could be melancholy, showed not his entire depth, but let the inner fountain, darkly pure, still send up jets and hues of being. He and Sir Aimar were brothers-in-arms, were Damon and Pythias. He was, also, true poet. Many a song had he made since that first song, made where he lay upon a boundary stone, by the stream that flowed past Castel-Noir and on to Our Lady in Egypt. And always he sang of one whom he named the Fair Goal. That name was known in Crusaders’ cities, in tents that were pitched upon desert sands. He himself was known and welcomed. Comrade-Frank or Englishman or German cried with pleasure, “Here comes the singer!”—or “the lover!” as might be. In the castle of Panemonde there was welcome and feasting. The strong kinsman had not proved weak in fidelity, but had held afar from the fief eagle and kite, while at home the Lady of Panemonde, a small, fair, determined woman, had administered with great ability castle, village, and the fields that fed both. Here were Crusaders who, unlike enough to many, had not come home impoverished, or to lands ravaged and debt-ridden. And Sir Eudes’s old sin was now wiped out of the memory of God, and he could sit in the sun and wait death with a peaceful mind. And Sir Aimar was so beautiful and strong a knight that his suzerain, the Count of Toulouse, would be sure to give him opportunity by which he might win fame for Panemonde beyond that which he had brought from across the sea. Garin de l’Isle d’Or, too, looked for service that should win him land and castle.