“Speak, Sir Scot, thou comest to tell me of a vigilant watch?”

“My watch hath been neither safe, vigilant, nor honourable,” said Sir Kenneth.  “The banner of England has been carried off.”

“And thou alive to tell it?” said Richard.  “Away, it cannot be.  There is not even a scratch on thy face.  It is ill jesting with a King—­yet I will forgive thee if thou hast lied.”

“Lied, Sir King!” returned the knight with fierce emphasis.  “But this also must be endured.  I have spoken the truth.”

“By God and St. George!” said the king with fury.  “De Vaux, go view the spot.  This cannot be.  The man’s courage is proof—­it cannot be!  Go speedily—­or send, if—­”

The King was interrupted by Sir Henry Neville, who came, breathless, to say the banner was gone, and there was a pool of blood where the banner-spear lay.

“But whom do I see here?” said Neville, his eyes suddenly resting upon Sir Kenneth.

“A traitor,” said the king, seizing his curtal-axe, “whom thou shalt see die a traitor’s death.”  And he drew back the weapon as in act to strike.

Colourless, but firm as a marble statue, the Scot stood before him, his head uncovered, his eyes cast down.  The king stood for a moment prompt to strike, then lowering the weapon, exclaimed: 

“But there was blood, Neville—­Hark thee, Sir Scot, brave thou wert once, for I have seen thee fight.  Say thou hast struck but one blow in our behalf, and get thee out of the camp with thy life and thy infamy.”

“There was no blood shed, my lord king,” replied Kenneth, “save that of a poor hound, which, more faithful than his master, defended the charge he deserted.”

“Now, by St. George,” said Richard, again heaving up his arm, but De Vaux threw himself between him and the object of his vengeance.  There was a pause.

“My lord,” said Kenneth.

“Ha! hast thou found thy speech?” said Richard.  “Ask grace from heaven, but none from me.  Wert thou my own and only brother, there is no pardon for thy fault.”

“I speak not to demand grace of mortal man,” replied the Scot.  “I beseech your grace for one moment’s opportunity to speak that which highly concerns your fame as a Christian king.  There is treason around you.”

“Treason that will injure thee more deeply than the loss of a hundred banners.  The—­the—­the Lady Edith—­”

“Ha!” said the king, “what was she to do with this matter?”

“My lord,” said the Scot, “there is a scheme on foot to disgrace your royal lineage, by bestowing the hand of the Lady Edith on the Saracen Soldan, and thereby to purchase a peace most dishonourable to Christendom.”

The mention of his relative’s name renewed the King’s recollection of what he had considered extreme presumption in the Knight of the Leopard, even while he stood high on the rolls of chivalry, and now appeared to drive the fiery monarch into a frenzy of passion.