The boy hung his head, and would have slunk off, but Richard detained him with a gentle hand. “My fair young cousin,” said he, “thy words gall no sore, and if ever thou and I charge side by side into the foeman’s ranks, thou shalt comprehend what thy uncle designed to say,—how, in the hour of strait and need, we measure men’s stature not by the body but the soul!”
“A noble answer,” whispered Anne, with something like sisterly admiration.
“Too noble,” said the more ambitious Isabel, in the same voice, “for Clarence’s future wife not to fear Clarence’s dauntless brother.”
“And so,” said the prince, quitting the stall with Warwick, while the girls still lingered behind, “so Saladin hath no son! Wherefore? Can you mate him with no bride?”
“Faith,” answered the earl, “the females of his race sleep in yonder dell, their burial-place, and the proud beast disdains all meaner loves. Nay, were it not so, to continue the breed, if adulterated, were but to mar it.”
“You care little for the legend, meseems.”
“Pardieu! at times, yes, over much; but in sober moments I think that the brave man who does his duty lacks no wizard prophecy to fulfil his doom; and whether in prayer or in death, in fortune or defeat, his soul goes straight to God!”
“Umph,” said Richard, musingly; and there was a pause. “Warwick,” resumed the prince, “doubtless, even on your return to London, the queen’s enmity and her mother’s will not cease. Clarence loves Isabel, but Clarence knows not how to persuade the king and rule the king’s womankind. Thou knowest how I have stood aloof from all the factions of the court. Unhappily I go to the Borders, and can but slightly serve thee. But—” (he stopped short, and sighed heavily).
“Speak on, Prince.”
“In a word, then, if I were thy son, Anne’s husband, I see—I see—I see—” (thrice repeated the prince, with a vague dreaminess in his eye, and stretching forth his hand)—“a future that might defy all foes, opening to me and thee!”