“Because the holy Saints were—and look at the Crucifix, Carloman. That was for them that hated Him. And, don’t you know what our Pater Noster says?”
Poor little Carloman could only repeat the Lord’s Prayer in Latin—he had not the least notion of its meaning—in which Richard had been carefully instructed by Father Lucas. He began to explain it, but before many words had passed his lips, little Carloman was asleep.
The Duke crept softly away to beg to be allowed to go to Lothaire; he entered the room, already dark, with a pine torch in his hand, that so flickered in the wind, that he could at first see nothing, but presently beheld a dark lump on the floor.
“Prince Lothaire,” he said, “here is—”
Lothaire cut him short. “Get away,” he said. “If it is your turn now, it will be mine by and by. I wish my mother had kept her word, and put your eyes out.”
Richard’s temper did not serve for such a reply. “It is a foul shame of you to speak so, when I only came out of kindness to you—so I shall leave you here all night, and not ask Sir Eric to let you out.”
And he swung back the heavy door with a resounding clang. But his heart smote him when he told his beads, and remembered what he had said to Carloman. He knew he could not sleep in his warm bed when Lothaire was in that cold gusty room. To be sure, Sir Eric said it would do him good, but Sir Eric little knew how tender the French Princes were.
So Richard crept down in the dark, slid back the bolt, and called, “Prince, Prince, I am sorry I was angry. Come out, and let us try to be friends.”
“What do you mean?” said Lothaire.
“Come out of the cold and dark. Here am I. I will show you the way. Where is your hand? Oh, how cold it is. Let me lead you down to the hall fire.”