Eleanor drew back as far as she could under the doorway, offended in
her sovereign pride and disgusted as gentlewomen are at the sight of
drunkenness. By her side, Gilbert drew himself up as if protesting
against a sacrilege and against the desecration of his holiest
thoughts. He knew that such men would often be as riotous again before
they reached Jerusalem, and that it would be absurd to expect anything
else. But meanwhile he realized what a little more of disgust would be
enough to make him hate what was before him. For a moment he forgot the
Queen's presence at his side, and he closed his eyes so as not to see
what was passing before them.
A little angry sound, that was neither of pain nor of fear, roused him
to the present. A man with a bad face and a shock head of red hair had
fallen out of the march and stood unsteadily before the Queen, plucking
at her mantle in the hope of seeing all her face. He seemed not to see
Gilbert, and there was a wicked light in his winy eyes. The Queen drew
back, and used her hands to keep her mantle and hood close about her;
but the riot pressed onward and forced the man from his feet, so that
he almost fell against her. Gilbert caught him by the neck with his
hand; and when he had torn the cross from his shoulder, he struck him
one blow that flattened his face for life. Then he threw him down into
the drunken crowd, a bruised and senseless thing, as island men throw a
dead horse from the cliff into the sea.
In a moment the confusion and din were ten times greater than before.
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