Aimery reconstructed in his inner vision all his memories of the
King: the close fair hair now thinning about the temples; the small face
still contoured like a boy's; the figure strung like a bow; the quick,
eager gestures; the blue dove's eyes, kindly and humble, as became one
whose proudest title was to be a "sergeant of the Crucified." But those
same eyes could also steel and blaze, for his father had been called the
Lion, his mother Semiramis, and his grandsire Augustus. In these wilds
Aimery was his vicegerent and bore himself proudly as the proxy of such a
monarch.
The hour came when they met the Tartar outposts. A cloud of horse swept
down on them, each man riding loose with his hand on a taut bowstring. In
silence they surrounded the little party, and their leader made signs to
Aimery to dismount. The Constable had procured for him a letter in Tartar
script, setting out the purpose of his mission. This the outpost could not
read, but they recognised some word among the characters, and pointed it
out to each other with uncouth murmurings.
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