"Be myself? And who thinkest thee I would be other than Richard Montmorency, a noble knight of Nimmr."
Blake shook his head in despair, then he turned to the soldiers who were standing about listening to the conversation. He thought some of them would be grinning at the joke that was being played on him, but he saw only solemn, serious faces.
"Look here," he said, addressing Paul Bodkin, "don't any of you know where the director is?"
"'Director'?" repeated Bodkin, shaking his head. "There be none in Nimmr thus y-clept, nay, nor in all the Valley of the Sepulcher that I wot."
"I'm sorry," said Blake, "the mistake is mine; but if there is no director there must be a keeper. May I see him?"
"Ah, keeper!" cried Bodkin, his face lighting with understanding. "Sir Richard is the keeper."
"My gawd!" exclaimed Blake, turning to the young man. "I beg your pardon, I thought that you were one of the inmates."
"Inmates? Indeed thou speakest a strange tongue and yet withall it hath the flavor of England ," replied the young man gravely. "But yon varlet be right—I am indeed this day the Keeper of the Gate."
Blake was commencing to doubt his own sanity, or at least his judgment. Neither the young white man nor any of the Negroes had any of their facial characteristics of madmen. He looked up suddenly at the keeper of the gate.
"I am sorry," he said, flashing one of the frank smiles that was famous amongst his acquaintances. "I have acted like a boor, but I've been under considerable of a nervous strain for a long time, and on top of that I've been lost in the jungle for days without proper or sufficient food.
"I thought that you were trying to play some sort of a joke on me and, well, I wasn't in any mood for jokes when I expected friendship and hospitality instead.
"Tell me, where am I? What country is this?"
"Thou art close upon the city of Nimmr ," replied the young man.
"I suppose this is something of a national holiday or something?" suggested Blake.
"I do not understand thee," replied the young man.
"Why, you're all in a pageant or something, aren't you?"
"Od's bodikins! the fellow speaks an outlandish tongue! Pageant?"
"Yes, those costumes."
"What be amiss with this apparel? True, 'tis not of any wondrous newness, but methinks it be at least more fair than thine. At least it well suffices the daily service of a knight."
"You don't mean that you dress like this every day?" demanded Blake.
"And why not? But enough of this. I have no wish to further bandy words with thee. Fetch him within, two of thee. And thou, Bodkin, return to the outer guard!" The young man turned and re-entered the building, while two of the soldiers seized Blake, none too gently, and hustled him within.
He found himself in a high-ceiled room with walls of cut stone and great, hand-hewn beams and rafters blackened with age. Upon the stone floor stood a table behind which, upon a bench, the young man seated himself while Blake was placed facing him with a guard on either hand.
"Thy name," demanded the young man.
"Blake."
"That be all—just Blake?"
"James Hunter Blake."
"What title bearest thou in thine own country?"
"I have no title."
"Ah, thou art not a gentleman, then?"
"I am called one."
"What is thy country?"
" America ."
" America ! There is no such country, fellow."
"And why not?"
"I never heard of it. What doest thou near the Valley of the Sepulcher? Didst not know 'tis forbidden?"
"I told you I was lost. I didn't know where I was. All I want is to get back to my safari or to the coast."
"That be impossible. We be surrounded by Saracens. For seven hundred and thirty-five years we have been invested by their armies. How come you through the enemies' lines? How passed you through his vast army?"
"There isn't any army."
"Givest thou the lie to Richard Montmorency, varlet? And thou wert of gentle blood thou shouldst account to me that insult upon the field of honor. Methink'st thou beest some lowborn spy sent hither by the Saracen sultan. ‘Twould be well an thou confessed all to me, for if I take thee before the Prince he will wrest the truth from thee in ways that are far from pleasant. What say?"
"I have nothing to confess. Take me before the Prince, or whoever your boss is; perhaps he will at least give me food."
"Thou shall have food here. Never shall it be said that Richard Montmorency turned a hungry man from his doorway Hey! Michel! Michel! Where is the lazy brat? Michel!"
A door opened from an inner apartment to admit a boy, sleepy eyed, digging a grimy fist into one eye. He was clothed in a short tunic, his legs encased in green tights. In his cap was a feather.
"Sleeping again, eh?" demanded Sir Richard. "Thou lazy knave! Fetch bread and meat for this poor wayfarer and be not until the morrow at it!"
Wide-eyed and rather stupidly, the boy stared at Blake. "A Saracen, master?" he asked.
"What boots it?" snapped Sir Richard. "Did not our Lord Jesus feed the multitude, nor ask if there were unbelievers among them? Haste, churl! The stranger be of great hunger."
The youth turned and shuffled from the room, wiping his nose upon his sleeve, and Sir Richard's attention came back to Blake.
"Thou are not ill-favored, fellow," he said. "'Tis a pity that thou beest not of noble blood, for thy mien appeareth not like that of one lowborn."
"I never considered myself lowborn," said Blake, with a grin.
"Thy father, now—was he not at least a sir knight?"
Blake was thinking quickly now. He was far from being able as yet to so much as hazard a guess that might explain his host's archaic costume and language, but he was sure that the man was in earnest, whether sane or not, and were he not sane it seemed doubly wise to humor him.
"Yes, indeed," he replied, "my father is a thirty second degree Mason and a Knight Templar."
"Sblud! I knew it," cried Sir Richard.
"And so am I," added Blake, when he realized the happy effect his statement had produced.
"Ah, I knew it! I knew it!" cried Sir Richard. "Thy bearing proclaimed thy noble blood; but why didst thou seek to deceive me? And so thou are one of the poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon who guard the way of the pilgrims to the Holy Land ! This explaineth thy poor raiment and glorifies it."
Blake was mystified by the allusion, as the picture always suggested by a reference to Knights Templar was of waving white plumes, gorgeous aprons and glittering swords. He did not know that in the days of their origin they were clothed in any old garments that the charity of others might bequeath them.
At this moment Michel returned bearing a wooden trencher containing cold mutton and several pieces of simnel bread and carrying in one hand a flagon of wine. These he set upon the table before Blake and going to a cupboard fetched two metal goblets into which he decanted a portion of the contents of the flagon.
Sir Richard arose and taking one of the goblets raised it before him on a level with his head.
"Hail, Sir James!" he cried, "and welcome to Nimmr and the Valley of the Sepulcher!"
"Here's looking at you!" replied Blake.
"A quaint saying," remarked Sir Richard. "Methinks the ways of England must be changed since the days of Richard the Lion Hearted when my noble ancestor set forth upon the great crusade in the company of his king. Here's looking at you! Ods bodikins! I must not let that from my memory. Here's looking at you! Just wait thou 'til some fair knight doth drink my health—I shall lay him flat with that!
"But, stay! Here, Michel, fetch yon stool for Sir James, and eat, sir knight. Thou must be passing hungry."
"I’ll tell the world I am," replied Blake, feelingly, as he sat down on the stool that Michel brought. There were no knives or forks, but there were fingers and these Blake used to advantage while his host sat smiling happily at him from across the rude table.