Richard had given his attendance all the time, and for several hours afterwards, during which the Princess hung over her husband, endeavouring to restore him from the state of exhaustion in which he scarcely seemed conscious of anything but her presence. Late in the evening, some one came to the entrance of the tent, and beckoned to the young squire; he came out expecting to receive some message, but to his extreme surprise found himself in the grasp of the Provost Marshal.
“On what charge?” he demanded, so soon as he was far enough beyond the precincts of his tent not to risk a disturbance.
“By the command of the council. On the charge of being privy to the attempt on the Prince’s life.”
“By whom preferred?” asked Richard.
“By the Lord Hamlyn de Valence.”
Richard attempted not another word. In effect the condition of the Prince seemed to him so hopeless that his most acute suffering at the moment was in the being prevented from ministering to him, or watching for a last word or look of recognition. He had no heart for self-vindication, even if he had not known its utter futility with men who had been prejudiced against him from the outset. Nor had he the opportunity, for the Provost Marshal conducted him at once to the tent where he was to be in ward for the night, a heap of straw for him to lie upon, and a guard of half a dozen archers outside; and there was he left to his despairing prayers for the Prince’s life. He could dwell on nothing else, there was no room in his mind for any thought but of that glory of manhood thus laid low, and of the anguish of the sweet face of the Princess.
“Sir—!” there was a low murmur near him—“now is the time. I have brought an archer’s gown and barrett, and we may easily get past the yeomen.” These last words were uttered, as on hands and knees a figure whose dark outline could barely be discerned, crept under the border of the tent.
“Who art thou?” hastily inquired Richard.
“You should know me, Sir,—I have done you many a good turn, and served your house truly.”
“Talk not of truth, thou traitor,” said Richard, recognizing Dustifoot’s voice. “Knowst thou that but for the Prince’s clemency thou hadst a year ago been out of the reach of the cruel evil thou hast now shared in.”