announced that the Constable was close at hand.
Vidal made incredible exertions to approach the leader of the procession, whose morion, distinguished by its lofty plumes, and right hand holding his truncheon, or leading-staff, was all he could see, on account of the crowd of officers and armed men around him. At length his exertions prevailed, and he came within three yards of the Constable, who was then in a small circle which had been with difficulty kept clear for the purpose of the ceremonial of the day. His back was towards the minstrel, and he was in the act of bending from his horse to deliver the royal charter to Wilkin Flammock, who had knelt on one knee to receive it the more reverentially. His discharge of this duty occasioned the Constable to stoop so low that his plume seemed in the act of mixing with the flowing mane of his noble charger.
At this moment, Vidal threw himself, with singular agility, over the heads of the Flemings who guarded the circle; and, ere an eye could twinkle, his right knee was on the croupe of the Constable's horse—the grasp of his left hand on the collar of De Lacy's buff- coat; then, clinging to its prey like a tiger after its leap, he drew, in the same instant of time, a short, sharp dagger—and buried it in the back of the neck, just where the spine, which was severed by the stroke, serves to convey to the trunk of the human body the mysterious influences of the brain. The blow was struck with the utmost accuracy of aim and strength of arm. The unhappy horseman dropped from his saddle, without groan or struggle, like a bull in the amphitheatre, under the steel of the tauridor; and in the same saddle sat his murderer, brandishing the bloody poniard, and urging the horse to speed.
There was indeed a possibility of his having achieved his escape, so much were those around paralyzed for the moment by the suddenness and audacity of the enterprise; but Flammock's presence of mind did not forsake him—he seized the horse by the bridle, and, aided by those who wanted but an example, made the rider prisoner, bound his arms, and called aloud that he must be carried before King Henry. This proposal, uttered in Flammock's strong and decided tone of voice, silenced a thousand wild cries of murder and treason, which had arisen while the different and hostile natives, of which the crowd was composed, threw upon each other reciprocally the charge of treachery.
All the streams, however, now assembled in one channel, and poured with unanimous assent towards the Garde Doloureuse, excepting a few of the murdered nobleman's train, who remained to transport their master's body, in decent solemnity of mourning, from the spot which he had sought with so much pomp and triumph.
When Flammock reached the Garde Doloureuse, he was readily admitted with his prisoner, and with such witnesses as he had selected to prove the execution of the crime. To his request of an audience, he was answered, that the King had commanded that none should be admitted to him for some time; yet so singular were the tidings of the Constable's slaughter, that the captain of the guard ventured to interrupt Henry's privacy, in order to communicate that event; and returned with orders that Flammock and his prisoner should be instantly admitted to the royal apartment. Here they found Henry, attended by several persons, who stood respectfully behind the royal seat, in a darkened part of the room.
When Flammock entered, his large bulk and massive limbs were strangely contrasted with cheeks pale with horror at what he had just witnessed, and with awe at finding himself in the royal presence-chamber. Beside him stood his prisoner, undaunted by the situation in which he was placed. The blood of his victim, which had spirited from the wound, was visible on his bare limbs and his scanty garments; but particularly upon his brow and the handkerchief with which it was bound.
Henry gazed on him with a stern look, which the other not only endured without dismay, but seemed to return with a frown of defiance.
'Does no one know this caitiff?' said Henry, looking around him.
There was no immediate answer, until Philip Guarine, stepping from the group which stood behind the royal chair, said, though with hesitation, 'So please you, my liege, but for the strange guise in which he is now arrayed, I should say there was a household minstrel of my master, by name Renault Vidal.'
'Thou art deceived, Norman,' replied the minstrel; 'my menial place and base lineage were but assumed!—I am Cadwallon the Briton—Cadwallon of the Nine Lays—Cadwallon, the chief bard of Gwenwyn of Powys-land—and his avenger!'
As he uttered the last word, his looks encountered those of a palmer, who had gradually advanced from the recess in which the attendants were stationed, and now confronted him.
The Welshman's eyes looked eagerly ghastly, as if flying from their sockets, while he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, mingled with horror, 'Do the dead come before monarchs?—Or, if thou art alive,
'Thou hast indeed slain the Constable,' answered the King; 'but know, Welshman, it was Randal de Lacy, on whom that charge was this morning conferred, by our belief of our loyal and faithful Hugh de Lacy's having been lost upon his return from the Holy Land, as the vessel in which ho had taken passage was reported to have suffered shipwreck. Thou hast cut short Randal's brief elevation but by a few hours; for to-morrow's sun would have again seen him without land or lordship.'
The prisoner dropped his head on his bosom in evident despair. 'I thought,' he murmured, 'that he had changed his slough, and come forth so glorious, all too soon. May the eyes drop out that were cheated with those baubles, a plumed cap and a lacquered baton!'
'I will take care, Welshman, thine eyes cheat thee not again,' said the King, sternly; 'before the night is an hour older, they shall be closed on all that is earthly.'
'May I request of your nobleness,' said the Constable, 'that you will permit me to ask the unhappy man a few questions?'
'When I have demanded of him myself,' said the King, 'why he has dipt his hands in the blood of a noble Norman.'
'Because he at whom I aimed my blow,' said the Briton, his eye glancing fiercely from the King to De Lacy, and back, 'had spilled the blood of the descendant of a thousand kings; to which his own gore, or thine, proud Count of Anjou, is but as the puddle of the highway to the silver fountain.'
Henry's eye menaced the audacious speaker; but the King reined in his wrath when he beheld the imploring look of his servant.—'What wouldst thou ask of him?' he said; 'be brief, for his time is short.'
'So please you, my liege, I would but demand wherefore he has for years forborne to take the life he aimed at, when it was in his power—nay, when it must have been lost but for his seemingly faithful service?'
'Norman,' said Cadwallon, 'I will answer thee. When I first took upon me thy service, it was well my purpose to have slain thee that night. There stands the man,' pointing to Philip Guarine, 'to whose vigilance thou owedst thy safety.'
'Indeed,' said De Lacy, 'I do remember some indications of such a purpose; but why didst thou forego it, when following opportunities put it in thy power?'
'When the slayer of my sovereign became God's soldier,' answered Cadwallon, 'and served his cause in Palestine, he was safe from my earthly vengeance.'
'A wonderful forbearance on the part of a Welsh assassin!' said the King, scornfully.
'Ay,' answered Cadwallon; 'and which certain Christian princes have scarce attained to, who have never neglected the chance of pillage or conquest afforded by the absence of a rival in the Holy Crusade.'
'Now, by the Holy Rood'—said Henry, on the point of bursting out, for the insult affected him peculiarly; but, suddenly stopping, he said, with an air of contempt, 'To the gallows with the knave!'
'But one other question,' said De Lacy, 'Renault, or by whatever name thou art called. Ever since my return thou hast rendered me service inconsistent with thy stern resolution upon my life—thou didst aid me in my shipwreck—and didst guide me safely through Wales, where my name would have ensured my death; and all this after the crusade was accomplished?'
'I could explain thy doubt,' said the bard, 'but that it might be thought I was pleading for my life.'
'Hesitate riot for that,' said the King; 'for were our Holy Father to Intercede for thee, his prayer were in vain.'
'Well then,' said the bard, 'know the truth—I was too proud to permit either wave or Welshman to share in my revenge. Know also, what is perhaps Cadwallon's weakness—use and habit had divided my feelings towards De Lacy, between aversion and admiration. I still contemplated my revenge, but as something which I might never complete, and which seemed rather an image in the clouds, than an object to which I must one day draw near. And when I beheld thee,' he said, turning to De Lacy, 'this very day so determined, so sternly resolved, to bear thy
