In a twinkling Richard was at the head of the raging brute, and with a mighty grip close to the jaw taught the foaming monster that he felt a master hand. A moment more and the horse was standing quiet and submissive. Richard resigned his hold to a servant, and turned to the strange travellers. A fat man in a prelate's dress, with a frosty red face, was pushing his white mule forward; Richard fell at once on his knees, for he recognized in the churchman My Lord Prelate Robert of Evroult, the Bishop of Messina. The good father was all thanks.
"_Dominus vobiscum_, my son; you have subdued a savage beast, to which I, a man of peace and not of war, should never have given harborage in my stables. And who may you be, for I have seen your face before, yet forget the name?"
"_Beatissime_, I am Richard Longsword, son of William Longsword, seigneur of this Barony of Cefalu."
"A right noble knight you will prove yourself, no doubt," commented the bishop; "when at Palermo do not fail to wait on me." And then, when he had given his blessing, he signed for the cavalcade to proceed.
"I thank your episcopal grace," quoth Richard, still very dutifully; and then his eye lit on another of the travellers,--one much more to his liking than the reverend prelate; for a lady sitting on a second white mule had thrust back the yellow veil from before her face, and the Norman caught a glimpse of cheeks red as a rose and white as milk, and two very bright eyes. Only a glimpse; for the lady, the instant he raised his gaze, dropped the veil; but she could not cover up those dark, gleaming eyes. Richly dressed was she, after the fashion of the Greeks, with red ribbons on her neck and a blue silk mantle and riding-hood. Her mule had a saddle of fine, embossed leather, and silver bits. At her side rode an old man in a horse-litter led by foot-boys; he also daintily dressed, and with the handsome, clear-cut features and venerable white beard of a Greek gentleman. The lady had dropped her veil at his warning nod, but now she bent over the mule and half motioned to Richard.
"You understand Greek, Sir Frank?" was her question; not in the mongrel Sicilian dialect, but in the stately tongue of Constantinople. In her voice was a little tremor and melody sweet as a springtime brook. The Norman bowed low.