A cloud of horse swept down on them, each man riding loose with his hand on a taut bowstring.
In silence they surrounded the little party, and their leader made signs to Aimery to dismount.

The Constable had procured for him a letter in Tartar script, setting out the purpose of his mission.

This the outpost could not read, but they recognised some word among the characters, and pointed it out to each other with uncouth murmurings.

They were strange folk, with eyes like pebbles and squat frames and short, broad faces, but each horse and man moved in unison like a centaur.
With gestures of respect the Tartars signalled to the Christians to follow, and led them for a day and a night southward down a broad valley, where vines and fruit trees grew and peace dwelt in villages.
They passed encampments of riders like themselves, and little scurries of horsemen would ride athwart their road and exchange greetings.

On the second morning they reached a city, populous in men but not in houses.
For miles stretched lines of skin tents, and in the heart of them by the river's edge stood a great hall of brick, still raw from the builders.
Aimery sat erect on his weary horse with the hum of an outlandish host about him, himself very weary and very sick at heart.