"This is a land without mountains," she said in a voice a poet might use to discuss their dreams. Oh, isn't the sound of that voice so sweet, so melodic? How did that come to pass? Did the water from the Temple Mountain cleanse her throat of all imperfection? Is it the lingering gift of a djinn's kiss? Was she just a once in a generation prodigy, gifted by nature?

"There are hills here, even tall ones, but mountains? The Greeks have them, as do the Germans. They break the boundaries between earth and sky, towering so high their peaks pass above the clouds. Nor do they stand alone; they gather in their hundreds, thousands, like forests of oak. To walk through the mountains is to walk as the fox wanders the wood, low to the ground and unable to perceive the whole. Each gap between the peaks blooms with the lights of civilization - valley castles watching the little towns that nestle on green hills in the narrow band between icy rivers and eternal snow. All of England could fit within that range of mountains, hidden in the twists and vales between them..."

Her feet were steady in time with the horse's hooves, her voice steady in time with each. There was no falling or rising of breath. Such was her gift that she could talk like this over endless miles and still have it seem that she was both quiet and reserved.

"... And then you come to Constantinople. An entire mountain was felled for its stone, and that stone made a city. If England could be hidden within the mountains of Anatolia, England again could be condensed, squeezed, crushed and corralled into that single city. You see more people in an hour in Constantinople than people here see in their entire lifetimes. Such marvels they build and all you could imagine and more are for sale. One man offered to sell me a cat the size of a small horse, with fangs that could crush a man's skull, and scar-like patterns upon its fur that jagged from the black of charcoal to the orange of autumn leaves. Another man played music that could coax snakes and mice to dance for him. I saw a mystic walk over glowing coals fresh from the forge without losing his smile and without marks upon his feet, before retiring to a bed of nails where he slept away the afternoon. The Imperial Palace alone was the size of Camelot, rivaled only by a church that could fit the cathedral of Salisbury entirely within its great hall..."

She had seemed so calm, so patient - how could she not be? With tales like this how could the bragaddo of English knights touch her? With dreams of magical cities and eyes that had seen the clouds from above, how could the magic of this green and pleasant land surprise her? The hooves of this mighty beast that carried you in steady, rocking motion had pounded so many miles into dust, so many foreign kingdoms into memory. From this saddle, from this height, this knight had seen the whole world, or so it seemed.

On and on went that nightingale voice, bringing the wonders of the Holy Land back to you in soft spoken poetry.