“What, the right arm of Amurath, the conqueror of Caramania, the flower of Turkish chivalry? Do I indeed behold that matchless warrior?” exclaimed Hunniades, and he held forth his hand to his guest, and ungirding his own sword, offered it to the Prince. “Iduna” continued Hunniades, to his daughter, “you at length behold Iskander.” “My joy is great, sir,” replied Iduna, “if I indeed rightly understand that we may count the Prince Iskander a champion of the Cross.” Iskander took from his heart his golden crucifix, and kissed it before her. “This has been my companion and consolation for long years, lady,” said Iskander; “you, perhaps, know my mournful history, Hunniades. Hitherto my pretended sovereign has not required me to bare my scimitar against my Christian brethren. That hour, however, has at length arrived, and it has decided me to adopt a line of conduct long meditated. Karam Bey who is aware of your necessities, the moment you commence your retreat, will attack you. I shall command his left wing. In spite of his superior power and position, draw up in array, and meet him with confidence. I propose, at a convenient moment in the day, to withdraw my troops, and with the Epirots hasten to my native country, and at once raise the standard of independence. It is a bold measure, but Success is the child of Audacity. We must assist each other with mutual diversions. Single-handed it is in vain for me to commence a struggle, which, with all adventitious advantages, will require the utmost exertion of energy, skill, and patience. But if yourself and the King Uladislaus occupy the armies of Amurath in Bulgaria, I am not without hope of ultimate success, since I have to inspire me all the most urgent interests of humanity, and combat, at the same time, for my God, my country, and my lawful crown.” “Brave Prince, I pledge you my troth,” said Hunniades, coming forward and seizing his hand; “and while Iskander and Hunniades live, they will never cease until they have achieved their great and holy end.” “It is a solemn compact,” said Iskander, “more sacred than if registered by all the scribes of Christendom. Lady Iduna, your prayers!” “They are ever with the champions of the Cross,” replied the daughter of Hunniades. She rose, the large cloak in which she was enveloped fell from her exquisite form. “Noble Iskander, this rosary is from the Holy Sepulchre,” continued Iduna; “wear it for the sake and memory of that blessed Saviour who died for our sins.” Iskander held forth his arm and touched her delicate hand as he received the rosary, which, pressing to his lips, he placed round his neck. “Great Hunniades,” said the Grecian Prince, “I must cross the mountains before dawn. Let me venture to entreat that we should hear to-morrow that the Christian camp is in retreat.”