“Not for the dead ancestor, but for the living warrior,” said the Lord Scales, lifting the curtain, and bowing with knightly grace as the earl passed. And scarcely was Warwick in the open space than the crowd fairly broke through all restraint, and the clamour of their joy filled with its hateful thunders the royal tent.
“Edward,” said Richard, whisperingly, and laying his finger on his brother’s arm, “forgive me if I offended; but had you at such a time resolved on violence—”
“I see it all,—you were right. But is this to be endured forever?”
“Sire,” returned Richard, with his dark smile, “rest calm; for the age is your best ally, and the age is outgrowing the steel and hauberk. A little while, and—”
“And what—”
“And—ah, sire, I will answer that question when our brother George (mark him!) either refrains from listening, or is married to Isabel Nevile, and hath quarrel with her father about the dowry. What, he, there!—let the jongleurs perform.”
“The jongleurs!” exclaimed the king; “why, Richard, thou hast more levity than myself!”
“Pardon me! Let the jongleurs perform, and bid the crowd stay. It is by laughing at the mountebanks that your Grace can best lead the people to forget their Warwick!”