“In pity, sire,” protested Stephen; “the night is cold; thou 'lt take an ague standing on the stone floor.”
“And if I do, what 's that to thee? Thou dost not love me!” shouted the King, his voice breaking in a sob. “Nay, do not touch me! I 'll not to bed,—I 'll not to bed! I 'll stand all night and shiver. Let be!—Ah, woe, harrow!”
He beat at Stephen with both hands, wildly, when the squire would have wrapped a mantle round him.
“My lord, thy gentlemen will hear.”
“I hope they may!” cried Richard, hoarse with screaming. “Mayhap I 'll die of the cold, and then they 'll behead thee for a traitor, and quarter thee, and hang thee up over London Bridge,—and I 'll laugh.”
Thereupon he did, noisily, with tears.
Stephen looked on him for a space in silence and then went out at the door and left him alone.
When he came again, bringing wine, spiced and honeyed, in a cup, Richard's mood had changed. He lay on the bed, weeping.
“Here 's good clarré will warm thee, sire,—drink!” coaxed Stephen gently.
“No!” said the King, strangling in his sobs, “No!—take away!” and struck the cup out of Stephen's hand so that the wine flew all about. Then on a sudden he was in the squire's arms, shivering, clinging, crying:—