“Oh, my lord, and my King, this that I would ask of thee is likewise for Calote's sake,” Stephen cried. “Thou dost know well, Calote is my love and my lady. I have tried, but I cannot love no other damosel. And now she is going out to strange peril alone. My soul crieth shame to me, sire; shame, for that I stay behind a-living easefully. Is this knightly demeanour? Is this to be a defender of ladies?”
Richard's hand closed tight upon Stephen's collar, as if he felt him slipping away and would keep him.
“My liege,” the squire pleaded, “my lord, let me go follow my love!”
The King sat up very straight on the bed; there was fright in his eyes. It seemed almost he could not understand that he heard.
“And leave me?” he said at last, in amaze.
Stephen made no answer, and, after astonishment, anger came into Richard's face.
“A peasant maid!” he cried. “How am I scorned!” And then, “I hate thee!—I hate, hate, hate thee!”
He pushed the squire from him. He tore his linen shirt open at the throat and sprang to the floor.
“Hear me!” Stephen begged.
“Nay; I 've heard enough!” screamed Richard, his teeth chattering 'twixt wrath and cold. “Go, an thou wilt! Go now; now! I 'll take Robert de Vere to my love. I 'll make him thrice an earl and give him my jewelled buckle. He 'll not leave me so cruel.”