“Oh God!” he cried, and buried his head in his arms.
The Queen had seen also, and with a little moan she sank beside the body of her second born, crying out:
“Oh Richard, my boy, my boy!” And as she bent still lower to kiss the lily mark upon the left breast of the son she had not seen to know for over twenty years, she paused, and with frantic haste she pressed her ear to his breast.
“He lives!” she almost shrieked. “Quick, Henry, our son lives!”
Bertrade de Montfort had regained consciousness almost before Philip of France had raised her from the floor, and she stood now, leaning on his arm, watching with wide, questioning eyes the strange scene being enacted at her feet.
Slowly, the lids of Norman of Torn lifted with returning consciousness. Before him, on her knees in the blood spattered rushes of the floor, knelt Eleanor, Queen of England, alternately chafing and kissing his hands.
A sore wound indeed to have brought on such a wild delirium, thought the Outlaw of Torn.
He felt his body, in a half sitting, half reclining position, resting against one who knelt behind him, and as he lifted his head to see who it might be supporting him, he looked into the eyes of the King, upon whose breast his head rested.
Strange vagaries of a disordered brain! Yes it must have been a very terrible wound that the little old man of Torn had given him; but why could he not dream that Bertrade de Montfort held him? And then his eyes wandered about among the throng of ladies, nobles and soldiers standing uncovered and with bowed heads about him. Presently he found her.
“Bertrade!” he whispered.