Some years later still, when King Louis again set forth for the East, on the crusade from which he was never to return, Geoffrey was among the most faithful of the followers who took ship with him. And when the poor king lay dying, before the walls of the far-away city of Tunis, it was Geoffrey whose tenderness and devotion helped to comfort the last days of the stricken monarch. When all was over, and the little band of crusaders once more returned to their homes in France, none among them was more loved and respected than the Viscount Geoffrey; for shortly before his death the good King Louis had, with his own hand, bestowed knighthood upon the little peasant boy, declaring that he had won the distinction, not only because of his great bravery and his honorable life, but also because of the exceeding sweetness and gentleness of his character. FELIX WHO SOUGHT HIS LOST SHEEP AT CHRISTMASTIDE BY A WAY THAT LED TO HIS HEART’S DESIRE AND MADE HIM A FAMOUS CARVER OF OLD PROVENCE A very long while ago, perhaps as many as two hundred years, the little Provençal village of Sur Varne was all bustle and stir, for it was the week before Christmas; and in all the world, no one has known better how to keep the joyous holiday than have the happy-hearted people of Provence. Everybody was busy, hurrying to and fro, gathering garlands of myrtle and laurel, bringing home Yule logs with pretty old songs and ceremonies, and in various ways making ready for the all-important festival. Not a house in Sur Varne but in some manner told the coming of the blessed birthday, and especially were there great preparations in the cottage of the shepherd, Père Michaud. This cottage, covered with white stucco, and thatched with long marsh-grass, stood at the edge of the village; olive and mulberry trees clustered about it, and a wild jasmine vine clambered over the doorway, while on this particular morning all around the low projecting eaves hung a row of tiny wheat-sheaves, swinging in the crisp December air, and twinkling in the sunlight like a golden fringe. For the Père Michaud had been up betimes, making ready the Christmas feast for the birds, which no Provençal peasant ever forgets at this gracious season; and the birds knew it, for already dozens of saucy robins and linnets and fieldfares were gathering in the Père’s mulberry-trees, their mouths fairly watering with anticipation. Within the cottage the good dame, the Misè Michaud, with wide sleeves rolled up and kirtle tucked back, was hard at work making all manner of holiday sweetmeats; while in the huge oven beside the blazing hearth the great Christmas cakes were baking, the famous _pompou_ and almond pâtés, dear to the hearts of the children of old Provence.