“There 's a-many horns blowing, sire,” Stephen warned him from the other side of the burn. “No doubt they seek thee and are troubled.”
“Cœur de joie! Let them seek!” replied Richard. “'T will give them a merry half-hour to think I 'm come to hurt, or slain. Then would there be one less step to the throne for mine Uncle Lancaster. Look not so sourly, Etienne! I 'll catch but one little fish. Hist!—Be still!”
For a little while there was no voice but the brook's voice, and no other sound but the slow turning of parchment pages. The monk busied him with the poem and Richard looked into the water. Meanwhile, Calote's gaze strayed to the squire and found his eyes awaiting her. Straightway he plucked his dagger from his belt, flashed it in the sun that she might see, and kissed it; after, he took it by the point and held it out, arm's length, as he would give it to her; and so he stood till she might rede his riddle. Presently, her eyes frowning a question, she put forth her hand, palm upward, uncertain. The squire smiled and nodded, and because their two hands might not meet across the brook, he thrust the dagger in the trunk of a tree and wedged the sheath betwixt the bark and the slant of the blade. All this very silently.
Brother Owyn pursed his lips, or shook his head, or turned the pages backward to read again. The King wagged his fishing-line up and down in the water, impatiently. The distant horns blew more frequent.
“My lord,” Stephen ventured once again.
Richard got to his feet and threw away the rod. “Eh, well; let 's be going, since thou wilt have it so,‘ he agreed. ’The holiday is over. On the morrow Gloucester again, and to say whether Urban or Clement is true Pope.”
Brother Owyn's face was grave; rebuke and displeasure trembled in his voice:—
“My lord, and dost thou think 't is England maketh the Pope?”
Richard was halfway across the burn; he laughed, and looked over his shoulder:—
“Ma foy, but I 'm very sure 't is not France!” said he.