"Ha! our cousin Edith!" said Richard, rising. "She speaks ever king-like, and king-like I will answer her."
"My lord," she said, "this good knight whose blood you are about to spill hath fallen from his duty through a snare set for him in idleness and folly. A message sent to him in the name of one--why should I not speak it?--it was in my own--induced him to leave his post."
"And you saw him then, cousin?" said the king, biting his lips to keep down his passion. "Where?"
"In the tent of her majesty, the queen."
"Of your royal consort! Now, by my father's soul, Edith, thou shalt rue this thy life long in a monastery."
"My liege," said Edith, "your greatness licences tyranny. My honour is as little touched as yours, and my lady, the queen, can prove it if she thinks fit. But I have not come here to excuse myself or inculpate others--"
The king was about to answer with much anger, when a Carmelite monk entered hastily, and flinging himself on his knees before the king, conjured him to stop the execution. It was the hermit of Engaddi, and to the king's fierce refusal to listen, he said with irritation:
"Thou art setting that mischief on foot thou wilt afterwards wish thou hadst stopped, though it had cost thee a limb. Rash, blinded man, forbear!"
"Away, away," cried the king, stamping. "The sun has risen on the dishonour of England, and it is not yet avenged. Ladies and priests withdraw, for by St. George, I swear--"
"Swear not!" said the voice of one who now entered--