“Dost fear I 'll kill the King?” Calote smiled, very sad. “Nay,—here 's the dagger; keep it!”
“'T is Master Fitzwarine's crest,” said Godiyeva.
“Ay, lady, he 's my love!—Lies low in dungeon. Here 's my boon.”
“This is a strange matter,” mused Godiyeva, “for that Etienne Fitzwarine is esquire and very parfait gentleman, in all the court was none so true of his word, and so courteous to ladies. But this is a common wench, a jongleuse.—Natheless, I heard him how he said, 'This damosel is promised to be my wedded wife.'—Come, I 'll pay my debt!”
Behind the arras of a little door they stood and listened. There was no sound. Then Godiyeva put her eye to the edge of the arras.
“He is alone,” she said. “Go in!”
Richard stood in a window. He held a little picture in his hand, and looked on it smiling. Calote, barefoot, stepped noiseless over the floor. Godiyeva, behind the arras, coughed.
“Cœur de joie!” cried Richard, staring. But when he saw who it was that knelt, gold-haired, before him, he went white and covered his eyes.
“I would forget!” he said, “I would forget! 'T is overpast!—Shall a king never think on joyful things? Ah, give me leave to tune my thoughts to love! These six months past I 've hearkened to hatred. Was never king so meek. But now there 's a marriage toward. Wilt thou have me think on murders,—and I take a wife in January?”
“Nay,—not on murders, sire,—on pardon and peace.”