“It must be some singular accident—some fatal mistake,” said Philip of France, who rode up at the same moment.
“Some deceit of the Enemy,” said the Archbishop of Tyre.
“A stratagem of the Saracens,” cried Henry of Champagne. “It were well to hang up the dog, and put the slave to the torture.”
“Let no man lay hand upon them,” said Richard, “as he loves his own life! Conrade, stand forth, if thou darest, and deny the accusation which this mute animal hath in his noble instinct brought against thee, of injury done to him, and foul scorn to England!”
“I never touched the banner,” said Conrade hastily.
“Thy words betray thee, Conrade!” said Richard, “for how didst thou know, save from conscious guilt, that the question is concerning the banner?”
“Hast thou then not kept the camp in turmoil on that and no other score?” answered Conrade; “and dost thou impute to a prince and an ally a crime which, after all, was probably committed by some paltry felon for the sake of the gold thread? Or wouldst thou now impeach a confederate on the credit of a dog?”
By this time the alarm was becoming general, so that Philip of France interposed.
“Princes and nobles,” he said, “you speak in presence of those whose swords will soon be at the throats of each other if they hear their leaders at such terms together. In the name of Heaven, let us draw off each his own troops into their separate quarters, and ourselves meet an hour hence in the Pavilion of Council to take some order in this new state of confusion.”
“Content,” said King Richard, “though I should have liked to have interrogated that caitiff while his gay doublet was yet besmirched with sand. But the pleasure of France shall be ours in this matter.”