They rode slowly towards the setting sun.

Now there was not in all the world a city so wonderful as Jerusalem.

Golden dome and tower were gleaming above white walls on the turquoise blue of the heavens.
"Good friend, I grieve for her who is dead," said Vergilius to David.
"She died for love," the other answered as one who would have done the same.
Vergilius looked not to right nor left.

His dark, quivering plume was an apt symbol of thought and passion beneath it.

His blood was hot from the rush and wrath of battle, from hatred of them who had sought his life.