“I was afraid,” added John, “that you would think me like the rest of them. Miscreants, all! Not one would shout for you—you, the victor! They don’t heed the judgment of Heaven one jot. And that’s what they call being warriors of the Cross! If the Prince were a true-born Englishman, he would be ashamed of himself. But never heed, Richard. Why don’t you speak to me? Are you angered that I told of the letter? Indeed, I never guessed—”
“Hush, varlet,” said Sir Raynald, “see you not that he has neither breath nor voice to speak? If you wish to do him a service, hie to our tents—down yonder, to the east, where you see the eight-pointed cross—”
“I know, Sir,” said John, perfectly civil on hearing accents as English as his own.
“And bring up Brother Bartlemy, he is a better infirmarer than I. Bid him from me bring his salves and bandages.”
Richard was barely conscious when he reached the tent, as much from rigid fasting and sleeplessness as from the actual loss of blood. His friend disarmed him tenderly, and revived him with bread and wine, silencing a half-murmured scruple about Lenten diet with the dispensation due to sickness. The wound was not likely to be serious or disabling, and the cares of the Hospitalier and his infirmarer had presently set their patient so much at ease that he dropped into a sound sleep, having scarcely said a word, beyond a few faintly uttered thanks, since he had fought the combat.
At first his sleep was profound, but by and by the associations of blows and wounds carried him back to the field of Evesham. The wild mêlée was renewed, he heard the voice of his father, but always in that strange distressing manner peculiar to dreams of the departed, always far away, and just beyond his reach, ever just about to give him the succour he needed, but ever withheld. The thunderstorm that broke over the contending armies roared again in his ears; and then again recurred the calm still night, when he had lain helpless on the battle-field; even the caress of Leonillo, and his low growl, were vividly repeated; but as the dog moved, it was to Richard as if the form of his father rose up in its armour from the dark field, and said in a deep hollow voice, “Well fought, my son; I will give thee knighthood.” Then Richard thought he was kneeling before his father, and hearing that same voice saying, “My son, be true and loyal. In the name of God and St. James. I dub thee knight of death!” and looking up, he beheld under the helmet, not Simon de Montfort’s face but the Prince’s. He awoke with a start of disappointment—and there stood Edward himself, leaning against the tent-pole, looking down at him!
He sprang on his feet, scarcely knowing whether he slept or woke; but Edward said, in that voice that at times was so ineffably sweet, “Be still, Richard; I fear me thou hast suffered a wrong, and I am come to repair it, as far as I can! Lay thee down again.”
And the Prince seated himself on the oaken chest; while Richard, after a few words, sat down on his couch.
“Is this the letter about which there has been such a coil?” said Edward, giving him the scroll in its sepia ink.
“It is!” replied Richard in amazement and dismay.