We offer, without much unnecessary comment, this story from the amazing book Little Baron Trump and His Wonderful Dog Bulger, a tome published in 1889. We refuse to comment because we do not take cheap shots. We have our professional pride to consider.

In this episode, the Baron shares the story of his ancestor, the Armless Knight. No, we will not comment.

I come from one of the most ancient and honorable families of North Germany – famous for its valor and love of adventure.

One of my ancestors, when just entering the twenties heard at his father's table one morning, that England's great King Coeur de Lion was about to lead an army against the infidels.

"Gracious parent," cried the young man starting up from his seat, his eyes on fire, his cheeks ablaze,"May I join the Crusaders and aid in the destruction of the enemies of our holy religion?"

"Alas, poor boy!" replied his father, casting a pitying glance at the youth, who, through
some strange freak of nature had been born armless, "thou wert not intended for terrible conflicts such as await our cousin Coeur de Lion. Thou lackest every means of weilding the battle sword, of couching the lance. 'Twould be murder to set thy defenceless body before
the uplifted cimeter of the merciless Moslem! My dear son, banish such thoughts from thy mind and turn thee to poesy and philosophy, thou shalt add new lustre to our family name by thy learning.' "Nay gracious parent, hear me!" urged the youth with eloquent eye:"true, nature has denied me arms, but she has not been so cruel as might be supposed for, as compensation, she has given a giant's strength to my lower limbs. Dost not remember how last month, I slew a wild boar with one blow from the heel of my hunting-boot?" "I do," answered the grim old Baron with a smile,"but –" "Pardon my interruption, noble father," came from the young man, "I shall go into battle doubly armed, for to each stirrup shall I affix a sword and woe betide the Mussulman who dares meet me on the battle-field."

"Go then my son!" cried the old Baron as the tears trickled down his battle-scarred cheeks, "go, join our royal cousin Coeur de Lion and if thou, armless, canst withstand the fury of the
infidel, another glory will be added to the name of Trump¹, and in this ancestral hall shall hang a portrait of the Armless Knight, upon which for all time the lovers of valiant deeds shall rest their wondering eyes."

The joy of my young ancestor knew no bounds.

Scarcely staying to make needful preparations for his journey, with a handful of trusty retainers, he rode from the castle yard amid the plaudits of thousands of fair women who had
gathered from the neighboring city to wish God speed to the Armless Knight.

'Twas not until the famous battle under the walls of Joppa that my ancestor had an opportunity to give an exhibition of his bravery, his extraordinary strength, and the resistless fury
of his onslaughts.

Not one, not five, not ten common soldiers dared face the "Armless Knight."

Whole squadrons recoiled in terror before this mysterious avenger of the wrongs of Christendom, who, without hands, struck down the Moslem warriors, as the grain falls before the
blast.

Again and again, Saladin sent the flower of his men against the Armless Knight, whose strength and valor had already made his name a terror to the superstitious soldiery. Little
realizing the terrible; fate awaiting him, the Moslem warrior would rush upon my ancestor with uplifted cimeter², when with one blow of his sword-armed stirrup the Armless Knight would cleave the breast of his foeman's horse, and then trample the infidel to death as he rolled upon the ground.

It was now high noon.

Upon an eminence, Saladin, watching the tide of battle, saw with anxious eye the appalling slaughter of the very flower of his army.

Already the name, rank, and nationality of my young ancestor had been made known to the Moslem leader.

"La, il la! Mahomed ul Becullah³!" he cried, stroking his beard. "Blessed is the man who can call that Christian warrior his son! How many of the Prophet's children has he slain this day?"

"Six hundred and fifty-nine!" was the answer given.

"Six hundred and fifty-nine," echoed Saladin," and it is but noonday!" When nightfall came the number had been increased to one thousand and seven.

Upon hearing of the terrible day's work of the Armless Knight, Saladin's great heart bled, and yet he could not withhold his admiration for such wondrous skill and bravery.

"Go!" cried the magnanimous infidel Chieftain, "go, take from my household that beauteous slave Kohilat, her with orbs⁴ of lustrous black, the very blossom of grace and flower of queenly beauty. Lead her to the Armless Knight, with royal greeting from Saladin; his valor makes him my brother, Giaour⁵ though he be! Away!"

When the beautiful Kohilat was led into the presence of my young ancestor, and the announcement made to him that Saladin had sent her as a present to him, the Armless Knight,
with royal greeting as a token of his respect for one so young, and yet so valiant, the first thought of the Christian youth was to wave her indignantly from his presence.

At that moment, however, Kohilat raised her large and lustrous eyes, and fixed them full upon the young man's face.

It was more than human heart could stand.

Motioning her retinue to leave his tent, he advanced to her side, with respectful mien, and said:

"Kohilat, a strange fate has sent thee to me. The messenger of the great Saladin imparts to me knowledge of thy good-ness, thy amiability, and thy gifted mind, which holds within its store most delightful imagery and useful knowledge as well. He informs me that thou standest in the direct line of descent from that famed princess of your land, Scheherezada, who for a thousand and one nights held the thoughts of the Sultan of the Indies so enthralled by the play of her brilliant fancy, as to turn him aside from his terrible project of vengeance. Dost think, Kohilat, that thou canst forget thy false god and love only the true one?"

"Ay, my lord," murmured the gentle Kohilat,"if such be my lord's pleasure⁶."

A smile spread over the handsome face of my young ancestor. He would fain have met with more resistance in converting the fair infidel to the true faith, but though he searched that beautiful face long and closely for any sign of subtility, yet saw he none.

"'Tis well, Kohilat." he continued, "and now answer me, and speak from thy heart. Art thou willing to become my wife, according to the rites of the Christian church and the laws of my native land?"

Again the beautiful Kohilat replied: "Ay, my lord; if such be thy pleasure."

The following day a truce was proclaimed, and in the presence of the two great leaders of the opposing armies, Coeur de Lion and Saladin, both surrounded by the most glorious retinue, my
young ancestor and the princess Kohilat were joined together as man and wife by the royal confessor, the Armless Knight towering above the surrounding multitude in his glittering
coat of mail like a column of burnished silver. When he advanced to meet his dark-eyed bride, with the marriage ring held between his lips, a mighty shout went up from both armies.

Saladin stroked his beard. Coeur de Lion made the sign of the cross. In a short half hour the leaders had returned to their camps, and war had resumed its awful work of destruction.

To this union of my renowned ancestor, the Armless Knight with the Moslem maid, I attribute my possession of an almost Oriental exuberance of fancy.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

06.11.17 Front Page

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