They were not respectable people--they were not worthy people--they were not learned and wise and brilliant people--but in their breasts, all their stupid lives long, resteth a peace that passeth understanding! How can men, calling themselves men, consent to be so degraded and happy.
We whisked by many a gray old medieval castle, clad thick with ivy that swung its green banners down from towers and turrets where once some old Crusader's flag had floated.

The driver pointed to one of these ancient fortresses, and said, (I translate): "Do you see that great iron hook that projects from the wall just under the highest window in the ruined tower ?" We said we could not see it at such a distance, but had no doubt it was there.
"Well," he said; "there is a legend connected with that iron hook.
Nearly seven hundred years ago, that castle was the property of the noble Count Luigi Gennaro Guido Alphonso di Genova----" "What was his other name ?" said Dan.
"He had no other name.

The name I have spoken was all the name he had.
He was the son of----" "Poor but honest parents--that is all right--never mind the particulars -- go on with the legend." THE LEGEND.
Well, then, all the world, at that time, was in a wild excitement about the Holy Sepulchre.

All the great feudal lords in Europe were pledging their lands and pawning their plate to fit out men-at-arms so that they might join the grand armies of Christendom and win renown in the Holy Wars.

The Count Luigi raised money, like the rest, and one mild September morning, armed with battle-ax, portcullis and thundering culverin, he rode through the greaves and bucklers of his donjon-keep with as gallant a troop of Christian bandits as ever stepped in Italy.
He had his sword, Excalibur, with him.