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      The patriarch, I presume—’twas he that sent me.

      The patriarch?  Knows he not my badge, the cross

      Of red on the white mantle?

         Can I say?

      Well, brother, well!  I am a templar, taken

      Prisoner at Tebnin, whose exalted fortress,

      Just as the truce expired, we sought to climb,

      In order to push forward next to Sidon.

      I was the twentieth captive, but the only

      Pardoned by Saladin—with this, the patriarch

      Knows all, or more than his occasions ask.

      And yet no more than he already knows,

      I think.  But why alone of all the captives

      Thou hast been spared, he fain would learn—

            Can I

      Myself tell that?  Already, with bare neck,

      I kneeled upon my mantle, and awaited

      The blow—when Saladin with steadfast eye

      Fixed me, sprang nearer to me, made a sign—

      I was upraised, unbound, about to thank him—

      And saw his eye in tears.  Both stand in silence.

      He goes.  I stay.  How all this hangs together,

      Thy patriarch may unriddle.

         He concludes,

      That God preserved you for some mighty deed.

      Some mighty deed?  To save out of the fire

      A Jewish girl—to usher curious pilgrims

      About Mount Sinai—to—

         The time may come—

      And this is no such trifle—but perhaps

      The patriarch meditates a weightier office.

      Think you so, brother?  Has he hinted aught?

      Why, yes; I was to sift you out a little,

      And hear if you were one to—

         Well—to what?

      I’m curious to observe how this man sifts.

      The shortest way will be to tell you plainly

      What are the patriarch’s wishes.

         And they are—

      To send a letter by your hand.

         By me?

      I am no carrier.  And were that an office

      More meritorious than to save from burning

      A Jewish maid?

         So it should seem; must seem—

      For, says the patriarch, to all Christendom

      This letter is of import; and to bear it

      Safe to its destination, says the patriarch,

      God will reward with a peculiar crown

      In heaven; and of this crown, the patriarch says,

      No one is worthier than you—

         Than I?

      For none so able, and so fit to earn

      This crown, the patriarch says, as you.

            As I?

      The patriarch here is free, can look about him,

      And knows, he says, how cities may be stormed,

      And how defended; knows, he says, the strengths

      And weaknesses of Saladin’s new bulwark,

      And of the inner rampart last thrown up;

      And to the warriors of the Lord, he says,

      Could clearly point them out;—

         And can I know

      Exactly the contents of this same letter?

      Why, that I don’t pretend to vouch exactly—

      ’Tis to King Philip: and our patriarch—

      I often wonder how this holy man,

      Who lives so wholly to his God and heaven,

      Can stoop to be so well informed about

      Whatever passes here—’Tis a hard task!

      Well—and your patriarch—

         Knows, with great precision,

      And from sure hands, how, when, and with what force,

      And in which quarter, Saladin, in case

      The war breaks out afresh, will take the field.

      He knows that?

         Yes; and would acquaint King Philip,

      That he may better calculate, if really

      The danger be so great as to require

      Him to renew at all events the truce

      So bravely broken by your body.

         So?

      This is a patriarch indeed!  He wants

      No common messenger; he wants a spy.

      Go tell your patriarch, brother, I am not,

      As far as you can sift, the man to suit him.

      I still esteem myself a prisoner, and

      A templar’s only calling is to fight,

      And not to ferret out intelligence.

      That’s much as I supposed, and, to speak plainly,

      Not to be blamed.  The best is yet behind.

      The patriarch has made out the very fortress,

      Its name, and strength, and site on Libanon,

      Wherein the mighty sums are now concealed,

      With which the prudent father of the sultan

      Provides the cost of war, and pays the army.

      He knows that Saladin, from time to time,

      Goes to this fortress, through by-ways and passe

      With few attendants.

         Well—

            How

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