“Nay, hath fallen.”
“Treason!”
“Wat!—Treason!”
“Slain!”
As they were carven in stone those nobles stood, white horror stiffened on their faces, to see a thousand bowstrings drawn as one, and deadly long-bows bent;—'t would seem all England held her breath awaiting chaos. Then King Richard, that fair child, true son of Plantagenet, rode out into that moment's tottering stillness, alone, with his face set towards those thousand straining arrows.
“I am your leader!” he cried, “I am your King!” and came into their midst smiling.
They leaped about him crying and singing, as 't were his valour had made them drunk. A-many broke their bows in twain across their knees. As on the Friday at Mile End, so now they kissed his feet; blessings went up as incense. And he laughed with them and wept and called them brothers.
“This is to be a king!” he cried with arms uplift to heaven. For he knew that he was ruler of England in that hour.
A little while he stayed with them, their eyes worshipful upturned ever to his as he rode hither and yon in the press, their voices, gladsome wild, ever in his ear, till the spell of their love so wrought with him that he was made a lover. In his heart Mercy and Truth were met together, Rightwisness and Peace had kissed. If his people had wronged him, he knew it not; Love sat in the seat of Memory, Suspicion had drunk a sleeping potion.
“This is to be a king!” cried Richard.