“His name and lineage, brother,” began Edmund.
“That, gentles, is the witness upon which the wolf slew the lamb for fouling the stream.”
“Then you will not examine him?” asked Gloucester.
“Not as a suspected felon,” said Edward. “One who by your own evidence was heedless of himself in seeking to save the helpless—nay, who spake of hasting to warn me—scarce merits such usage. What consorts with his honour and my safety, I can trust to him to tell me as true friend and liegeman!” and the confiding smile with which he looked at Richard was like a sunbeam in a dark cloud.
“My Lord Prince,” objected Gloucester, “we cannot think that this is for your safety.”
“See here, Gloucester,” said Edward. “Till my arm can keep my head again, double the guards, and search all envoys, under whatever pretext they may enter; but never for the rest of thy life brand a man with imprisonment till you have reasonable proof against him. Thanks for your care of me, my Lords, but I can scarce yet brook long converse. The council is dismissed.”
Richard, infinitely relieved, could hardly wait till he could safely speak to the Prince to express his gratitude and joy that he had been not only defended, but freed from all examination, so as to have been spared from denouncing his brother, and that the family had been spared from this additional stigma. Edward, who like all reserved men could not endure the expression of thanks, even while their utter omission would have been wounding, cut him short.
“Tush, boy, Simon is as much my cousin as thy brother, and I would not help to throw fresh stains on the name that, but for my father’s selfish counsellors, would stand highest at home! Besides,” he added, as one half ashamed of his generosity and willing to qualify it, “supposing it got abroad that he had aimed this stroke at the heir of England—why, then England’s honour would be concerned, and we should have stout Gilbert de Clare and all the rest of them wild to storm Simon in his Galilean fastness, without King Herod’s boxes, I trow. Then would all the Druses, and the Maronites, and the Saracens, and the half-breeds, the worst of the whole, come down on them in some impassable gorge, and the troops I have taken such pains to keep in health and training would leave their bones in those doleful passes; and not for the sake of the Holy Sepulchre, but of my private quarrel. No, no, Richard, we will keep our own counsel, and do our best that Simon may not get another chance, before I can move within the walls of Acre; and then we will spread our sails, and pray that the Holy Land may make a holier man of him.”
CHAPTER XII
THE GARDEN OF THE HOSPITAL
“And who is yon page lying cold at his knee?”—Scott.