Page 204 - A Knight of the White Cross
P. 204

the Bey of Tunis, offering to ransom the knights, but all replied that they
               were unaware of any such captives having been landed.



               An attempt had then been made to ascertain whether they had been carried

               to Tripoli; but the bey had little authority over the various tribesmen along
               the coast, and only replied that no such captives had been sold in the city.
               Thus all hope of ransoming them had died away, and their names were

               inscribed in the list of those who had fallen into the hands of the infidels,
               but of whose subsequent fate no clue could be obtained.



               All were greatly emaciated, and their faces showed signs of the sufferings
               they had undergone. The young knights were all familiar with their names,

               but personally none had known them, for they had been carried off two or
               three months before Gervaise and Ralph Harcourt had arrived at Rhodes.



               All three had struggled desperately to break their chains while the fight was
               going on, and had, as soon as the contest was decided, risen to their feet

               and shouted the battle cry of the Order; then, overcome by their emotions,
               they sank down upon their benches, and remained as if in a stupor until the

               knights, who had hurried first to them, struck off their fetters. Then the
               three men grasped each other's hands, while tears streamed down their
               cheeks.



                "It is no dream, comrades," one of them said, in a hoarse voice. "We are

               free again. Let us first return thanks to God for our release, and then we can
               thank these our brothers."



               The three knights knelt at the benches where they had toiled and suffered,
               and hid their faces in their hands. No sounds came from their lips, but their

                stifled sobs and the heaving of their naked shoulders, seamed and scarred
               by the strokes of their taskmasters' whips, told the young knights, who
                stood unhelmeted and silent around, how deep was their emotion. Then

               they rose.



                "I am Fabricius Caretto," one said; "this is Giacomo Da Vinci; this Pietro
               Forzi: all knight commanders of the Order, and now for six years prisoners
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