When these were ended he rose from his knees; and when out of the death-chamber bowed his bead and with grave courtesy exchanged greetings with Charles of Anjou, asking at the same time to see his young cousin Philippe, the new King of France.
An inquiry from an attendant elicited that Philippe had just dropped asleep under the influence of a potion from his leech.
“Then, fair nephew,” said Charles of Sicily, “be content with your old uncle, and come to my apartments, where I will set before you the necessities that have led me to conclude the truce that is baffling your eager desire of deeds of arms.”
“Pardon me, royal uncle,” returned Edward, “I must see my camp set up. It is already late, and I must take order that my troops mingle not where contagion might seize them. Another time,” he added, “I may brook the argument better.”
Charles of Anjou did not press him further. There was that in his face and voice which betokened that his fierce indignation and overpowering grief were scarcely restrained, and that a word of excuse in his present mood would but have roused the lion.
Horses had been provided for him and his attendant. He flung himself on his steed at once, and Richard was obliged to follow without a moment’s opportunity of making inquiry about the wonderful apparition he had seen in the chamber of death.
For some distance Edward galloped rapidly over the sandy soil, then drawing up his horse when he had come to the brow from which he could see on the one side the valley of Carthage, on the other the bay, he made an exclamation which Richard took for a summons, and he came up asking if he were called. “No, boy, no! I only spoke my thoughts aloud! Failure and success! We’ve seen them both to-day—in the two kings! What thinkst thou of them?”
“Better be wrecked than work the wreck, my Lord,” said Richard.
“Ay! but why surrender the wit to the worker of the wreck?” said Edward. Then knitting his brow, “Two holy men have I known who did not blind their wit for their conscience’ sake—two alone—did it fare better with them? One was the good Bishop of Lincoln—the other thou knowst, Richard! Well, one goes after another—first good Bishop Grostête, then the Lord of Leicester, and now mine uncle of France; and if earth is to have no better than such as it pleases the Saints to leave in it, it will not be worth staying in much longer.”
“My Lord,” said Richard, coming near, “methought I saw my father’s face under a visor—one of the knightly guards beside the holy King.”