The Prince and the Page: A Story of the Last Crusade — John Shaqi
The Prince and the Page: A Story of the Last CrusadeYonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
General
The Prince and the Page: A Story of the Last Crusade
Yonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
Crusades -- Eighth, 1270 -- Fiction
This was a youth thirteen years old, wearing such a dress as was usual
with foresters—namely, a garment of home-spun undyed wool, reaching to
the knee, and there met by buskins of deer-skin, with the dappled hair
outside; but the belt which crossed one shoulder was clasped with gold,
and sustained a dagger, whose hilt and sheath were of exquisite
workmanship. The cap on his head was of gray rabbit-skin, but a heron’s
plume waved in it; the dark curling locks beneath were carefully
arranged; and the port of his head and shoulders, the mould of his limbs,
the cast of his features, and the fairness of his complexion, made his
appearance ill accord with the homeliness of his garb. In one hand he
carried a bow over his shoulder; in the other he held by the ears a
couple of dead rabbits, with which he playfully tantalized the dog,
holding them to his nose, and then lifting them high aloft, while the
hound, perfectly entering into the sport, leapt high after them with open
mouth, and pretended to seize them, then bounded and careered round his
young master with gay short barks, till both were out of breath; and the
boy, flinging the rabbits on the turf, threw himself down on it, with one
arm upon the neck of the panting dog, whose great gasps, like a sobbing
of laughter, heaved his whole frame.
“Ay, good Leonillo, take your rest!” said the boy: “we have done yeoman’s
service to-day, and shown ourselves fit to earn our own livelihood! We
are outlaws now, my lion of the Pyrenees; and you at least lead a merrier
life than in the castle halls, when we hunted for sport, and not for
sustenance! Well-a-day, my Leon!”—as the creature closed his mouth, and
looked wistfully up at him with almost human sympathy and
intelligence—“would that we knew where are all that were once wont to go
with us to the chase! But for them, I would be well content to be a bold
forester all my days! Better so, than to be ever vexed and crossed in
every design for the country’s weal—distrusted above—betrayed beneath!
Alack! alack! my noble father, why wert thou wrecked in every hope—in
every aim!”
These murmurings were broken off as Leonillo suddenly crested his head,
and changed his expression of repose for one of intense listening.
“Already!” exclaimed the boy, springing to his feet, as Leonillo bounded
forward to meet a stout hardy forester, who was advancing from the
opposite end of the glade. This was a man of the largest and most sinewy
mould, his face tanned by sun and wind to a uniform hard ruddy brown, and
his shaggy black hair untrimmed, as well as his dark bristly beard. His
jerkin was of rough leather, crossed by a belt, sustaining sword and
dagger; a bow and arrows were at his back; a huge quarter-staff in his
hand; and his whole aspect was that of a ferocious outlaw, whose hand was
against every man.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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