Bertran was ready. 'He rages his lands, sire, like a leopard caged. Now and again he raids the marches, harries France or Anjou, and withdraws.'
'And the King his father, Bertran, where is he? Far off, I hope.'
'He,' said Bertran, 'is in Normandy with a host, seeking the head of his son Richard on a charger.'
'The great man that he is!' cried Don Sancho. Bertran could not contain himself.
'Great or not, he is to pay his debts! The old rascal stag is rotten with fever.'
I suppose Don Sancho was not called Wise for nothing. At any rate he sat for a while considering the man before him. Then he asked, where was King Philip?
'Sire,' replied Bertran, 'he is in his city of Paris, comforting Dame Alois, and assembling his estates for Count Richard's flank.'
'And Prince John?'
'Oh, sire, he has friends. He waits. Watch for him presently.'
King Sancho frowned his forehead into furrows, and allowed himself a hair or two of his beard. 'We will think of it, Bertran,' he said presently. 'Yes, we will think of it, after our own fashion. God rest you, Bertran, pray go refresh yourself.' So he dismissed him.