That was still before him, and he looked forward to
it with that half-deadly, half-voluptuous longing for bloodshed
sanctioned and sanctified by justice or religion, which is at the main
root of every soldier's nature, let men say what they will.
When the Crusade began its pilgrimage of arms, Gilbert had not yet seen
Beatrix, nor had he any distinct proof, even by the Queen's word, that
she was really in France. Eleanor herself had kept him at a distance
during the months that elapsed between Bernard's preaching at Vezelay
and the departure of the host; and he had been much alone, being more
knight than squire, and yet not having knighthood, because he would not
ask it of the Queen, since that would have seemed like begging for a
reward, and she did not offer it freely, while the King, of course,
knew nothing of what had taken place. One night, as he sat alone in his
chamber, a man entered, cloaked and hooded, and laid before him
something heavy wrapped in a silk kerchief that might have been a
woman's; and the man went out quickly before Gilbert had thought of
asking a question. In the kerchief there was a purse of gold, which
indeed he sorely needed, and yet after the man was gone he sat stupidly
staring at the contents for a long time. At first it seemed to him
almost certain that the money came from the Queen; but as he remembered
her coldness ever since the riot at Vezelay, and recollected how many
times he had of late tried to attract her attention without success,
the conviction lost ground, and he began to believe it possible, if not
certain, that the gift had proceeded from another source.
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