“Away, away—this is heathen science,” said the King. “Christians practise it not—wise men believe it not. Old man, thou dotest.”
“I dote not, Richard,” answered the hermit—“I am not so happy. I know my condition, and that some portion of reason is yet permitted me, not for my own use, but that of the Church and the advancement of the Cross. I am the blind man who holds a torch to others, though it yields no light to himself. Ask me touching what concerns the weal of Christendom, and of this Crusade, and I will speak with thee as the wisest counsellor on whose tongue persuasion ever sat. Speak to me of my own wretched being, and my words shall be those of the maniac outcast which I am.”
“I would not break the bands of unity asunder among the princes of the Crusade,” said Richard, with a mitigated tone and manner; “but what atonement can they render me for the injustice and insult which I have sustained?”
“Even of that I am prepared and commissioned to speak by the Council, which, meeting hastily at the summons of Philip of France, have taken measures for that effect.”
“Strange,” replied Richard, “that others should treat of what is due to the wounded majesty of England!”
“They are willing to anticipate your demands, if it be possible,” answered the hermit. “In a body, they consent that the Banner of England be replaced on Saint George's Mount; and they lay under ban and condemnation the audacious criminal, or criminals, by whom it was outraged, and will announce a princely reward to any who shall denounce the delinquent's guilt, and give his flesh to the wolves and ravens.”
“And Austria,” said Richard, “upon whom rest such strong presumptions that he was the author of the deed?”
“To prevent discord in the host,” replied the hermit, “Austria will clear himself of the suspicion by submitting to whatsoever ordeal the Patriarch of Jerusalem shall impose.”
“Will he clear himself by the trial by combat?” said King Richard.
“His oath prohibits it,” said the hermit; “and, moreover, the Council of the Princes—”