Enixa est puerpera;
In ragged woollen clad He was
Qui régnât super aethera,
And patiently may we then pass
That sing, and heartily sing we,
‘Gloria Tibi, Domine!’”
The Queen shivered in the glad sunlight. “I am, it must be, pitiably weak,” she said at last, “because I cannot sing as he does. And, since I am not very wise, were he to return even now—But he will not return. He will never return,” the Queen repeated, carefully. “It is strange I cannot comprehend that he will never return! Ah, Mother of God!” she cried, with a steadier voice, “grant that I may weep! nay, of thy infinite mercy let me presently find the heart to weep!” And about the Queen of England many birds sang joyously.
She sent for the King that evening, after supper, and they may well have talked of many matters, for he did not return to his own apartments that night. Next day the English barons held a council, and in the midst of it King Richard demanded to be told his age.
“Your Grace is in your twenty-second year,” said the uneasy Gloucester, who was now with reason troubled, since he had been vainly seeking everywhere for the evanished Maudelain.
“Then I have been under tutors and governors longer than any other ward in my dominion. My lords, I thank you for your past services, but I need them no more.” They had no check handy, and Gloucester in particular foreread his death-warrant, but of necessity he shouted with the others, “Hail, King of England!”