“Sire,” said Neville, gravely, “the best treasures of a king are the hearts of his people.”
John looked angrily, supposing that the words conveyed some reproach; but seeing that none was intended he calmed himself, smoothed his ruffled brow, and answered—
“By my faith, Neville, it is too late to speak in such a strain now, when everything, almost even hope, is lost. Beshrew me if I feel not strongly at times that I would rather be laid to-morrow by the side of my father and mother in the abbey of Fontevraud than endure the humiliation of submitting to the triumph of my foes.”
“Sire,” replied Neville, “in this life we must take the thorn with the rose, the sweet with the bitter. But life is life after all; and a live dog is better than a dead lion.”
“And yet,” said John, sorrowfully, “you know full well that if Fitzwalter and his confederates are henceforth to have their own way, and to do what they list in England, I am like to lead a life compared to which that of a dog is comfort and dignity. By St. Wulstan! I am like to be no better than a slave in mine own realm; and no being on earth is so contemptible as a despised king.”
Hugh Neville was silent.
“Why speak you not?” asked John, sternly. “I want to hear what you would counsel me to do.”
“Sire,” replied Neville, frankly, “I was thinking that, if any quality would stand you in good stead in the present situation of affairs, it would be that which the Arabs say is the price of all felicity—I mean patience.”
John’s brow darkened, and his lip curled. It was not the advice which he wished his minister to give, and, being against the grain, was not well taken.