Morning dawned, sharp and clear, and the red sun came out of Asia,
turning the huge pile of Zillenstein once more into a scarlet glow, a
vast blood-red splotch in the side of the mountain.
He drank at the little stream, then bathed his face, ate breakfast, and,
knapsack on back, returned to the road that led down the far side of the
mountain. His courage was still high. The crusader of the day before was
none the less the crusader this morning, and he whistled soft and happy
airs as he descended. He knew that it was a trick that he had caught
from General Vaugirard and he wondered where that fat old hero might be
now.
But as he walked along he formed his plan. Every general who intends to
attack an enemy must choose a method of approach, and the crusader's
plan to assail Zillenstein was now quite clear in his mind. His decision
brought him the usual relief, following the solution of a doubt, and he
intended that his journey that day through the great valley should
resemble somewhat a stroll of pleasure.
He whistled at times and at times he sang. He remembered the story, of
the faithful troubadour, Blondel, who sought his master, Richard of the
Lion Heart, imprisoned somewhere in a castle in Austria, and who,
finding him, sang under his window to let him know one loyal friend was
there. But Richard, under the light of history, had become merely a
barbarous king, cruel to his enemies and unjust to his friends.
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