A heavy tread behind him stirred him from his meditations. Turning, he beheld the companion of his adventure the previous evening.)
King. Well, Tristan?
Tristan. The bird has flown, sire. Thibaut’s wound was much slighter than we thought last night. After we carried him to his house, he made his escape thence in disguise, and has, as I believe, fled from Paris to join the Duke of Burgundy.
King. I wish the Duke joy of him. He is more dangerous to my enemy when he is on my enemy’s side. And my rival for loyalty?
Tristan. Barber Oliver has charge of him. I would have hanged the rogue out of hand.
King. The stars warn me that I need this rhyming ragamuffin.
Tristan. Are you going to let him think he is king, sire?
King. Not quite. When he wakes, he is to be assured that he is the Count of Montcorbier and Grand Constable of France. His antics may amuse me, his lucky star may serve me, and his winning tongue may help to avenge me on a certain forward maid, who disdained me. Send me here Oliver. [Exit Tristan.]
[Katherine comes slowly down one of the rose-ways.]
King. Where are you going, girl?