Love from his aim when Love is bent thereon;
And that were love at my disposal lain—
All mine to take!—and Death had said, ‘Refrain,
Lest I, even I, exact the cost thereof,’
I know that even as the weather-vane
Follows the wind so would I follow Love.”
Sire Edward put aside the lute. “Thus ends the Song of Service,” he said, “which was made not by the King of England but by Edward Plantagenet—hot-blooded and desirous man!—in honor of the one woman who within more years than I care to think of has at all considered Edward Plantagenet.”
“I do not comprehend,” she said. And, indeed, she dared not.
But now he held both tiny hands in his. “At best, your poet is an egotist. I must die presently. Meantime I crave largesse, madame, and a great almsgiving, so that in his unending sleep your poet may rehearse our present love.” And even in Rigon’s dim light he found her kindling eyes not niggardly.
Sire Edward strode to the window and raised big hands toward the spear-points of the aloof stars. “Master of us all!” he cried; “O Father of us all! the Hammer of the Scots am I! the Scourge of France, the conqueror of Llewellyn and of Leicester, and the flail of the accursed race that slew Thine only Son! the King of England am I, who have made of England an imperial nation, and have given to Thy Englishmen new laws! And to-night I crave my hire. Never, O my Father, have I had of any person aught save reverence or hatred! never in my life has any person loved me! And I am old, my Father—I am old, and presently I die. As I have served Thee—as Jacob wrestled with Thee at the ford of Jabbok—at the place of Peniel—” Against the tremulous blue and silver of the forest the Princess saw how horribly the big man was shaken. “My hire! my hire!” he hoarsely said. “Forty long years, my Father! And now I will not let Thee go except Thou hear me, and grant me life and this woman’s love.”