"My wife heard your friend go out before dawn. He never came back."
Jesus, have mercy on me, thought Simon. This is my fault. He went out to await the dawn so he could warn me. And someone killed him. Tears were pouring from his eyes. He was sobbing convulsively.
"Poverello," he heard someone mutter sympathetically. Here he was a knight, a count, kneeling in the street weeping in front of a crowd of strangers. He did not care.
Guilt crushed him. He wanted to lie beside his friend's body and be dead with him. But how could he? No, he had to find and kill Alain's murderer.
Still kneeling beside Alain, he wiped his face with the edge of his cape and surveyed the crowd. To keep his identity a secret seemed unimportant now.
"I am the Count de Gobignon of France. I will pay handsomely anyone who helps me find the man who did this. If anyone can name the murderer, I will pay"—he thought a moment—"a thousand florins."
A murmuring ran through the crowd. A fortune! Foolish, perhaps, Simon thought, to offer such a reward. A man would accuse his own brother to get that much money.
I may hear many names. I will have to be sure.
He looked down at poor Alain. The flies were crawling on his face, and he brushed them away. Alain's lips had turned blue. He looked for Alain's purse and saw none on his belt.
Stabbed to death for the few coins he carried. Dead at twenty years of age. Tears overflowed his eyes again.