forth angry reproaches for the iniquities of his whole life, and declared at last that he had almost with his own hands slain St. Thomas.  At this the king fiercely turned, with his eyes rolling in a mad storm of passion, and the patriarch bent his head.  “Do with me,” he cried, “what you did to Thomas.  I would rather have my head cut off by you in England than by the Saracens in Palestine, for in truth you are worse than any Saracen!” The king answered with an oath, “If all the men of my kingdom were gathered in one body and spoke with one mouth they would not dare to say this to me.”  Heraclius pointed scornfully to the train of followers.  “Do you indeed think that these men love you—­these who care only for your wealth?  It is the plunder, and not the man, that this crowd follows after!” Henry spoke of the danger from his sons if he should quit his dominions.  “No wonder,” was the parting taunt of Heraclius; “from the devil they came, and to the devil they will go.”

But Henry was never to come back to England.  One day in June a certain Walter of the royal household was terrified by a vision of St. Thomas, who appeared bearing a shining sword which he declared had been newly forged to pierce through the king himself.  Walter hurried to the chapel, where Henry was at mass, to tell his tale.  Three times the king bent before the altar and signed himself devoutly as though he prayed to the Lord, and then passed to his council chamber.  The next day he called Walter to his presence, and sadly shaking his head, spoke with deep sighs, “Walter, Walter, I have felt how cruelly thy sword can strike, for we have lost Chateauroux!” War had in fact broken out in Aquitaine.  Toulouse had risen against Richard.  Philip, in violation of his treaty, invaded Berri and marched into Auvergne.  Hastily gathering an army, Henry crossed to France in a terrible storm.  He met Philip at Gisors on the 30th of September, but after three days’ bitter strife the kings parted.  In November they met again at Bonmoulins in the presence of the Archbishop of Reims, and a great multitude of courtiers and knights.  Richard, outraged by the rumour that Henry proposed to give Aquitaine to John, turned suddenly to Philip, while the people crowded round wondering, ungirt his sword, and stretched out his hands to do homage to him for all his father’s lands from the Channel to the Pyrenees.  His unhappy father started back, stunned by this new calamity, “for he had not forgotten the evil which Henry his son had done to him with the help of King Louis, and this Philip was yet worse than his father Louis.”  As father and son fell apart the people rushed together, while at the tumult the outer ring of soldiers laid their hands upon their swords, and thus Philip and Richard went out together, leaving Henry alone.