As the light increased, sweeping along the glittering frieze of war, Morolt of Gorm and Regis stood forward before the King. He was a lean man, tall and vigorous as a bow of steel, his black eyes darting fire under his thatch of close-cropped hair. The nobles had put him forward that morning as a man born to claim a boon upon the brink of battle. Fierce and virile, he bared his sword to the sun, and pointed with mailed hand to the rebel host in the valley.
"Sire, a boon for your loyal servants."
The King's face was as a mask of steel heated to white heat, ardent and pitiless. He had the spoilers of his kingdom under his heel, and was not the man to flinch at vengeance.
"Say on, Morolt, what would ye?"
"We are men, sire, and these wolves have slaughtered our kinsfolk."
"Am I held to be a lamb, sirs!"
A rough laugh eddied up. Morolt shook his sword.
"Give them into our hand, sire," he said; "there shall be no need of ropes and dungeons."
The iron men cheered him. Richard the King lifted up his baton; his strong voice swept far in the hush of the dawn.
"Sirs," he said to them, "take the Black Leopard of Imbrecour for your pattern, rend and slay, let none escape you. Every man of my host wears a white cross on his sword arm. Let that badge only stay your vengeance. As for these whelps of treason, they have butchered our children, shamed our women, clawed and torn at their King's throne. To-day who thinks of mercy! Go down, sirs, to the slaughter."