My rhymes: and say no hindrance may restrain
Love from his aim when Love is bent thereon;
And that were love at my disposal lain—
All mine to take!—and Death had said, ‘Refrain,
Lest I, even I, exact the cost thereof,’
I know that even as the weathervane
Follows the wind so would I follow Love.”
Sire Edward put aside the lute. “Thus ends the Song of Service,” he said, “which was made not by the King of England but by Edward Plantagenet—hot-blooded and desirous man!—in honor of the one woman who within more years than I care to think of has at all considered Edward Plantagenet.”
“I do not comprehend,” she said. And, indeed, she dared not.
But now he held both tiny hands in his. “At best, your poet is an egotist. I must die presently. Meantime I crave largesse, madame, and a great almsgiving, so that in his unending sleep your poet may rehearse our present love.” And even in Rigon’s dim light he found her kindling eyes not niggardly.
Sire Edward strode to the window and raised big hands toward the spear-points of the aloof stars. “Master of us all!” he cried; “O Father of us all! the Hammer of the Scots am I! the Scourge of France, the conqueror of Llewellyn and of Leicester, and the flail of the accursed race that slew Thine only Son! the King of England am I, who have made of England an imperial nation, and have given to Thy Englishmen new laws! And tonight I crave my hire. Never, O my Father, have I had of any person aught save reverence or hatred! never in my life has any person loved me! And I am old, my Father—I am old, and presently I die. As I have served Thee—as Jacob wrestled with Thee at the ford of Jabbok—at the place of Peniel—” Against the tremulous blue and silver of the forest the Princess saw how horribly the big man was shaken. “My hire! my hire!” he hoarsely said. “Forty long years, my Father! And now I will not let Thee go except Thou hear me, and grant me life and this woman’s love.”
He turned, stark and black in the rearward splendor of the moon. “As a prince hast thou power with God,” he calmly said, “and thou hast prevailed. For the King of kings was never obdurate, my dear, to them that have deserved well of Him. So He will attend to my request, and will get us out of this pickle somehow.”
Even as he said this, Philippe the Handsome came into the room, and at the heels of the French King were seven lords, armed cap-à-pie.
The French King was an odd man. Subtly smiling, he came forward through the twilight, with soft, long strides, and he made no outcry at recognition of his sister. “Take the woman away, Victor,” he said, disinterestedly, to de Montespan. Afterward he sat down beside the table and remained silent for a while, intently regarding Sire Edward and the tiny woman who clung to Sire Edward’s arm; and in the flickering gloom of the hut Philippe smiled as an artist may smile who gazes on the perfected work and knows it to be adroit.
“You prefer to remain, my sister?” he said presently. “Hé bien! it happens that tonight I am in a mood for granting almost any favor. A little later and I will attend to your merits.” The fleet disorder of his visage had lapsed again into the meditative smile which was that of Lucifer watching a toasted soul. “And so it ends,” he said, “and England loses tonight the heir that Manuel the Redeemer provided. Conqueror of Scotland, Scourge of France! O unconquerable king! and will the worms of Ermenoueïl, then, pause tomorrow to consider through what a glorious turmoil their dinner came to them?”
“Do you design to murder me?” Sire Edward said.
The French King shrugged. “I design that within this moment my lords shall slay you while I sit here and do not move a finger. Is it not good to be a king, my cousin, and to sit quite still, and to see your bitterest enemy hacked and slain—and all the while to sit quite still, quite unruffled, as a king should always be? Eh, eh! I never lived until tonight!”
“Now, by Heaven,” said Sire Edward, “I am your kinsman and your guest, I am unarmed—”
Philippe bowed his head. “Undoubtedly,” he assented, “the deed is foul. But I desire Gascony very earnestly, and so long as you live you will never permit me to retain Gascony. Hence it is quite necessary, you conceive, that I murder you. What!” he presently said, “will you not beg for mercy? I had hoped,” the French King added, somewhat wistfully, “that you might be afraid to die, O huge and righteous man! and would entreat me to spare you. To spurn the weeping conqueror of Llewellyn, say … But these sins which damn one’s soul are in actual performance very tedious affairs; and I begin to grow aweary of the game. Hé bien! now kill this man for me, messieurs.”
The English King strode forward. “Shallow trickster!” Sire Edward thundered. “Am I not afraid? You grimacing baby, do you think to ensnare a lion with such a flimsy rattrap? Wise persons do not hunt lions with these contraptions: for it is the nature of a rattrap, fair cousin, to ensnare not the beast which imperiously desires and takes in daylight, but the tinier and the filthier beast that covets meanly and attacks under the cover of darkness—as do you and your seven skulkers!” The man was rather terrible; not a Frenchman within the hut but had drawn back a little.
“Listen!” Sire Edward said, and he came yet farther toward the King of France and shook at him one forefinger; “when you were in your cradle I was leading armies. When you were yet unbreeched I was lord of half Europe. For thirty years I have driven kings before me as
