Presently came a great
knight, the Count of Montferrat, brother to the Count of Savoy, who had
been at Vezelay, where Gilbert had talked with him. He walked with slow
strides, his bright eyes seeming to cut a way for him, his long mantle
trailing, his soft red leather boots pushed down in close creases about
his ankles, his gloved hand pressing down the cross-hilt of his sword,
so that the sheath lifted his mantle behind him. On each side of him
walked his favourite knights, and their squires with them, all on their
way to the King's quarters, where a council of war was to be held,
since it was known how the great German host had been routed, and that
the Emperor himself might follow Duke Frederick of Suabia. This Duke
had already reached the camp, after beating off the Seljuk skirmishers
who had harassed his retreat and driven in the first fright-struck
Germans.
The soldiers and grooms made way for the noble, but he asked which
might be the tent of Gilbert Warde, the Englishman; so they pointed to
the raised flap, where Alric stood with his sturdy legs apart, under
the shadow of Gilbert's long shield, which was hanging from a lance
stuck in the ground. The shield was blank, though many gentlemen
already painted devices on theirs, and sovereign lords displayed the
heraldic emblems of their houses long before their vassals began to use
their coats-of-arms on their shields in war. But Gilbert would bear
neither emblem nor device till some great deed should make him famous.
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