For some time the weight of Tyrrell's body had been bearing momentarily more heavily against that of Sir Richard. It could be noted that his eyes had lost a great measure of their accustomed brilliancy, and that his breaths were coming thick and painfully labored. Sir Richard leaned toward him and told him of the approaching horsemen.
"Canst decipher the colors beneath which they ride?" Tyrrell asked weakly.
"Methinks I can but just make me out a device in sable upon a field gules. The banners do so flutter in the wind," Sir Richard added, "that I cannot guess its form."
"Sable upon gules," Tyrrell whispered, without raising his head. "They are thine own good men ... sire."
As they drew within easy distance Sir Richard recognized them to be a part of the company of knights who had bivouaced around the pavilion of purple and black. When the approaching company made out who the three horsemen were they set up a great shouting, driving down upon them with waving swords and lances. They grew quiet upon the instant, however, when they observed that their leader, Sir James Tyrrell, lifted not his head, and bore in around him with grave and apprehensive faces.
Suddenly, then, and with a supreme effort of will, Tyrrell straightened his tall, gaunt form upon his saddle, scowling meanwhile with deep-knitted brows upon the circle of grim warriors gathered about him. Sir Richard noted still the pitiful half-haze upon his eyes.
"Knights," he cried, in a deep and penetrating voice; "I have kept my vows to thee. Here, now, I bring thee thy leader—Sir Richard Rohan, Earl of Warwick; Son of Edward, Duke of Clarence"—he swayed so it seemed that he must surely fall. Then, raising himself with that which seemed to be a superhuman effort high upon his stirrups: "I acclaim this young knight, before all the world, King Richard IV!" he shouted, and pitched forward, inert, insensible, into the arms of one of his men.
Right tenderly did they bear him down the hill till they came to the tavern which Sir Richard had glimpsed from the promontory but a short while gone.
"'Tis an inflammation of the pleura," he whispered to Sir Richard when the young knight was standing beside his bed within a small room of the tavern. "'Tis a dangerous sickness ... God wot, an I may or may not survive, sire, to witness the fruition of all my labors. But the torch is now ready trimmed, awaiting but the application of the spark. Grant me the boon of thy promise to continue on thy journey to the Red Tavern. Lord Bishop Kennedy shall soon seek thee there. In him thou canst repose the utmost confidence; I yield thee into his hands. Give thee adieu, sire," he whispered, saluting Sir Richard's outstretched hand with his feverish lips.
The dim passageway outside the small room in which Tyrrell had been disposed was filled with the low humming of voices, a subdued sound of clanking swords and the pale gleamings of points of light on polished armor. As Sir Richard stepped through the door, these solemn-visaged knights moved silently against the wall and balustrade, thus opening him an avenue down the stairs. They made him obeisance, one by one, as he passed between; each whispering him a princely name and title, the which sang loud in the young knight's ears of the fame of many valorous deeds long since set down in history.