“I am no prophet, sire.”
“Thou thinkest not of thy King, neither of his kingdom, but of thine own self only,” said Richard, in the sulks, driving an arrow spear-fashion into the earth and wrenching it forth with a jerk that snapped the shaft.
“I think of her,” Etienne answered him sadly.
“There is more kinds of love than one,” Calote protested. “Is there not a love for the whole people that is as worthy as the love for one woman? Yea, and more worthy, for 't is Christ's fashion of loving. What matter if I lose my life, if so be the people is free?”
Richard kindled to her words. “So must the King love!” he cried. “Fie, for shame, Etienne! But only yesternight thou wert persuading me how honourable 't is when a man lose his life for the world's sake and Christ Jesu—as crusaders and such.”
“And what is this I preach, but a crusade,” demanded Calote, “to free the people?”
“A crusade?” the King questioned. Then his face came all alight. “A crusade!—And when the preaching 's done I 'll be the leader of the crusade.—And I 'll make all England my Holy Land!”—For if Richard had not been a king, he might have been a poet.
“Now praise be to Christ and Mary Mother!” said Calote joyously. “And what for a token dost give me, sire, that the people may know me a true messenger?”
“A token, pardé!” and he looked him up and down hastily. He had on a green jerkin all embroidered over with R's entwined in a pattern of gold threads, and buttoned with little bells of gold. His one leg was scarlet, his other was green. About his neck, at the end of a long jewelled chain, hung a little hunting-horn of silver, with his badge of the white hart graven upon it and set round with pearls.
“Take this!” he said, and flung the chain over her head.