“Yes, Martina; but what of it?”

“You are dull, Olaf.  I have heard that these Easterns love music, especially if it be of a sort they do not know.  Why, therefore, should not a blind man and his daughter—­no, his orphaned niece—­earn an honest living as travelling musicians in Egypt?  These Prophet worshippers, I am told, think it a great sin to harm one who is maimed—­a poor northern trader in amber who has been robbed by Christian thieves.  Rendered sightless also that he might not be able to swear to them before the judges, and now, with his sister’s child, winning his bread as best he may.  Like you, Olaf, I have skill in languages, and even know enough of Arabic to beg in it, for my mother, who was a Syrian, taught it to me as a child, and since we have been here I have practised.  What say you?”

“I say that we might travel as safely thus as in any other way.  Yet, Martina, how can I ask you to tie such a burden on your back?”

“Oh! no need to ask, Olaf, since Fate bound it there when it made me your—­god-mother.  Where you go I needs must go also, until you are married,” she added with a laugh.  “Afterwards, perhaps, you will need me no more.  Well, there’s a plan, for what it is worth, and now we’ll sleep on it, hoping to find a better.  Pray to St. Michael to-night, Olaf.”

As it chanced, St. Michael gave me no light, so the end of it was that I determined to play this part of a blind harper.  In those days there was a trade between Lesbos and Egypt in cedar wood, wool, wine for the Copts, for the Moslems drank none, and other goods.  Peace having been declared between the island and the Caliph, a small vessel was laden with such merchandise at my cost, and a Greek of Lesbos, Menas by name, put in command of it as the owner, with a crew of sailors whom I could trust to the death.

To these men, who were Christians, I told my business, swearing them to secrecy by the most holy of all oaths.  But, alas! as I shall show, although I could trust these sailors when they were masters of themselves, I could not trust them, or, rather, one of them, when wine was his master.  In our northern land we had a saying that “Ale is another man,” and now its truth was to be proved to me, not for the first time.

When all was ready I made known my plans to Jodd alone, in whose hands I left a writing to say what must be done if I returned no more.  To the other officers and the soldiers I said only that I proposed to make a journey in this trading ship disguised as a merchant, both for my health’s sake and to discover for myself the state of the surrounding countries, and especially of the Christians in Egypt.

When he had heard all, Jodd, although he was a hopeful-minded man, grew sad over this journey, which I could see he thought would be my last.

“I expected no less,” he said; “and yet, General, I trusted that your saint might keep your feet on some safer path.  Doubtless this lady Heliodore is dead, or fled, or wed; at least, you will never find her.”