The story told by the pilgrim was partly true. The _Fleur de Lys_ had been wrecked on the coast of Sicily, but Hubert and two or three others escaped in an open boat. They were a night and day on the deep, when a vessel bound for Antioch hove in sight, and made out their signals of distress. They were taken on board, and arrived at Antioch duly, whence Hubert despatched a letter to his friends at Walderne (which never arrived); and then in the exquisite beauty of the Eastern summer—“when the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds has come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land; when the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grapes give a good smell”—in all this beauty Hubert de Walderne and the three surviving members of his party set out to traverse the mountainous districts of Lebanon on their way to Jerusalem. They engaged a guide, who feigned himself a Christian, and, in company with other pilgrims, all of course armed, travelled through the wondrous country beneath “The hill of Hermon” on their road southward. Near the sources of the Jordan, while yet amongst the cedars of Lebanon, their guide led them into an ambush; and after a desperate but unavailing resistance, they were all either slain or taken prisoners. Hubert, his sword broken in the struggle, was made captive, after doing all that valour could do, and bound. He saw his faithful squire lying dead on the field, and the other two survivors of the party which had set out in such high hope from Walderne, captives like himself. Resistance was impossible. Their captors would have released them for ransom; but who was near to redeem them? So they were taken to Damascus, and, in the absence of such ransom, were exposed in the slave market. Oh, what degradation for the young knight! Hubert prayed for death, but it never came. Death flies the miserable, and seeks the happy who cling to life. An old man with a flowing beard, and of great austerity of manner, had come to inspect the slaves. He selected only the young and comely, and Hubert had the misfortune to be one so distinguished. All men bowed before the potentate, whoever he was, and Hubert saw that he had become the property of “a prince among his people.” Hubert was taken away, leaving his two fellow countrymen behind him—taken away, joined to a gang of slaves like himself: and at eventide, under the care of drivers, they formed a caravan, and set out westward, making for the distant heights of Lebanon. He was the only Englishman in the party, but close by was a young Poitevin, whose downcast manner and frequent tears aroused the pitying contempt of our Hubert, who thus at last was moved to address him: “Cheer up, brother. While there is life there is hope.” “Not for those who become the slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain.”