“O my love, my lady!” said Stephen. And presently, “'T is a wondrous fair world!”
She lifted her face to speak, but he was waiting for her lips.
The gaoler made a happy clucking noise.
Richard laughed merrily. “Cœur de joie!” quoth he, “but I 'll kiss also!” and he kissed the little picture.
“'T behooves us give thanks to the King,” whispered Calote. Her face was hid anew, and she spake to her love's heart that leaped against his courtepy.
Then they two turned them, hand in hand, and the King cried out, “A-a-ah!—How art thou pale!—Etienne!”
Stephen bent his knee: “Sire,” he said, “wa-was nothing hid from thee;—thou knewest all th-things ever I did in that Rising. I was true to King Richard.”
“This is thy sword, Etienne,” quoth the King. “These many months it hath hung at my side. Take it again!”
Stephen looked on the sword, sombre, slow. “My forefathers, they were men of might,‘ he said. ’There were three died in the Holy Land doing battle with the Paynim. The Scots slew my grandfather in fair fight. My father fell in France, in the last Edward's quarrel. Next after England, the King, and my lady, I have loved my sword.”
He stretched forth his hands and took it. “Oh, thou bright blade, what hosts of infidels and dastard French, what enemies to Truth and Richard, methought I 'd slay! And thou hast drunk the blood of one man only, a dead man, that gave his life for England's sake and the people. Thou wert maiden, and they dishonoured thee.”