With the first sun-rays of the following morning, all those valiant knights and other guests had arisen, and departed on their way to Normandy. It was a pleasure to look on them as they proceeded on their journey, now half lost amid the shadowy copsewoods, then breaking out again along the bright green meadows; poets and painters, renowned in their several arts, mingling in groupes, with warriors and their squires in bright-gleaming armour, attended too by sumpter-horses in rich coverings fringed with gold and silver. Among the most brilliant figures was that of the Count Alessandro de Vinciguerra, wearing a great cloak embroidered with the arms of his family, which waved and fluttered in the wind. His garments, too, glittered in the sunlight, and feathers of all colours in a vast plume surmounted his barett. He had laid aside his coat of mail, wearing only a travelling dress, and riding on a stately mule, richly caparisoned, with no other weapons but a sword and a small glancing buckler, both of which hung from his blue velvet saddle. Not far distant, however, was a squire, who led by the golden reins his war-steed, prancing and snorting, and there was also a sumpter-horse, bearing his massive armour, surmounted by the close head-piece, with nodding plumes of heron’s feathers, all arranged as if it had been to make up a subject for the painter. The brave Chevalier de Montfaucon and the young Knight of Trautwangen rode for the most part together, deeply engrossed in their discourse, and always feeling more and more friendship for each other. In like manner, also, Sir Otto’s light-brown steed and De Montfaucon’s silver-grey seemed to acquire mutual good-will and attachment, notwithstanding the hatred which the former used to entertain towards all strangers. Of the conversation which passed between the knights it may be allowed us here to divulge what follows:-- “I had at length almost despaired of finding you in France,” said Sir Otto. “At the holy sepulchre rather, I thought we should meet one day, or perhaps on the road thither. For are not all the noblest hearts in Europe now attracted to that sacred monument, which, environed and profaned by Saracens with their heathenish abominations, draws, like an irresistible magnet, the processions of pilgrims and warriors from all quarters to effect its liberation? Your heart too, my noble adversary, doubtless beats in unison with these devout feelings. Wherefore then do I not behold the cross on your shoulders?”