“Montfort’s vengeance!” The sound rang in his ears as a sharp pang thrilled through his side; the hot blood welled up, and he was dashed to the ground; but even in falling he heard the Prince’s “What treason is this?” and felt the rising of the mighty form. At the same moment the murderer was in the grasp of that strong right hand, and was dragged forward into the full light of the lamp that hung from the roof of the pavilion.
“Thou!” he gasped. “Who—what?”
“Richard!” exclaimed the Prince, and relaxing his hold, “Simon de Montfort, thou hast slain thy brother!”
The sudden shock and awe had overwhelmed Simon, who was indeed weaponless, since his dagger remained in Richard’s wound. He silently assisted the Prince in lifting Richard to the cushions of the couch, and the low groan convinced them that he lived: looked anxiously for the wound. The dagger had gone deep between the ribs, and little but the haft could be seen.
“Poisoned?” Edward asked, looking up at Simon.
“No. It failed once. He may live,” said Simon, with bent brows and folded arms.
“No, no. My death-blow!” gasped Richard, with sobbing breath. “Best so, if—Oh, could I but speak!”
The Prince raised him, supporting his head on his own broad breast and shoulder, and signed to Simon to hold to his lips the cup of water that stood near. Richard slightly revived, and in this posture breathed more easily.
“He might yet live. Call speedy aid!” said the Prince, who seemed to have utterly forgotten that he was practically alone with his persevering and desperate enemy.
“Wait! Oh, wait!” cried Richard, holding out his hand; “it would be vain; but it will be all joy did I but know that there will be no more of this. Simon, he loved my father—he has spared thee again and again.”