'Beau sire, God strikes in divers places, but always finds out the joints of our harness.'
'Go on,' says King Richard, sitting very still.
'Dear sire, my cousin, the Abbot Milo went out of Acre three weeks before the death of the Marquess. With him also went Madame Jehane; but he returned without her. This is all I know, though it is not all that the abbot knows.'
At the mention of her name the King took a sharp breath, as you or I do when quick pain strikes us. To the rest he listened without a sign; and asked at the end, 'Where is Milo?'
'He is at Acre, sire,' says the Count; 'and in prison.'
'Who put him there?'
'Myself, sire.'
'You did wrong, Count. Get you back to Acre and bring him to me.' Champagne went away.
Great trouble, as you know, always made Richard dumb; the grief struck inwards and congealed. He became more than ever his own councillor, the worst in the world. Lucky for the Abbot Milo that he was in bonds; but now you see why he penned the aphorism with which I began this chapter.