[Original]
“My lord,” she said, “this good knight, whose blood you are about to spill, hath done, in his time, service to Christendom. He has fallen from his duty through a snare set for him in mere folly and idleness of spirit. A message sent to him in the name of one who—why should I not speak it?—it was in my own—induced him for an instant to leave his post. And what knight in the Christian camp might not have thus far transgressed at command of a maiden, who, poor howsoever in other qualities, hath yet the blood of Plantagenet in her veins?”
“And you saw him, then, cousin?” replied the King, biting his lips to keep down his passion.
“I did, my liege,” said Edith. “It is no time to explain wherefore. I am here neither to exculpate myself nor to blame others.”
“And where did you do him such a grace?”
“In the tent of her Majesty the Queen.”
“Of our royal consort!” said Richard. “Now by Heaven, by Saint George of England, and every other saint that treads its crystal floor, this is too audacious! I have noticed and overlooked this warrior's insolent admiration of one so far above him, and I grudged him not that one of my blood should shed from her high-born sphere such influence as the sun bestows on the world beneath. But, heaven and earth! that you should have admitted him to an audience by night, in the very tent of our royal consort!—and dare to offer this as an excuse for his disobedience and desertion! By my father's soul, Edith, thou shalt rue this thy life long in a monastery!”
“My liege,” said Edith, “your greatness licenses tyranny. My honour, Lord King, is as little touched as yours, and my Lady the Queen can prove it if she think fit. But I have already said I am not here to excuse myself or inculpate others. I ask you but to extend to one, whose fault was committed under strong temptation, that mercy, which even you yourself, Lord King, must one day supplicate at a higher tribunal, and for faults, perhaps, less venial.”
“Can this be Edith Plantagenet?” said the King bitterly—“Edith Plantagenet, the wise and the noble? Or is it some lovesick woman who cares not for her own fame in comparison of the life of her paramour? Now, by King Henry's soul! little hinders but I order thy minion's skull to be brought from the gibbet, and fixed as a perpetual ornament by the crucifix in thy cell!”
“And if thou dost send it from the gibbet to be placed for ever in my sight,” said Edith, “I will say it is a relic of a good knight, cruelly and unworthily done to death by” (she checked herself)—“by one of whom I shall only say, he should have known better how to reward chivalry. Minion callest thou him?” she continued, with increasing vehemence. “He was indeed my lover, and a most true one; but never sought he grace from me by look or word—contented with such humble observance as men pay to the saints. And the good—the valiant—the faithful must die for this!”