His moody face cleared slow,—“Is 't an omen?” he questioned, and, stretching forth his hand with the picture, “See! here 's the lady shall be Queen of England one day,—and queens are merciful. There 's a tale of my grandmother, Philippa, how she saved the burgesses of Calais,—and they were six. Here 's but only one, and he was my childhood's friend.—She hath a wondrous pleading eye,—my lady.—'T is an omen.” He went to a table and wrote somewhat on a parchment; then clapped his hands, and to the page that entered, said:—
“Bear this hastily to the warden of the Tower.”
“Gramerci! Sire!” whispered Calote, and bowed her head on her knees so that her long hair lay on the ground at the King's feet as 't were a pool of sunshine.
“I ever meant to set him free—when the noblesse had forgot,” said Richard huskily. “He must depart in secret, for a little while. And now may I forget murder and turn me to merriment. The Rising 's pricked flat. I will never remember it more.”
“And dost thou willingly forget that day the people blessed thee for thy gifts of freedom and grace, sire? Dost thou willingly forget that day thou wast bravest man in England,—and king?”
“Hush!—Hush!” he cried. “Kings may not hearken to truth,—'t is sure confusion.”
“Here 's the horn, sire, wherewith I gathered the folk into fellowship.” Calote untied the bag that hung from her neck.
“O thou mischief-maker!” said Richard to his hunting-horn. “Thou betrayer unto foolishness! Thou shalt be sold to buy my wedding garment.”
But now was the arras pushed aside, and Stephen came in, and his gaoler that grinned very joyous.
Calote heard. And then she had arisen to her feet, and turned her back upon the King. And Stephen kissed her hair, and her two hands that rested on his shoulders; but her face was hid.