“Silence,” he said, “infamous and audacious.  By heaven, I will have thy tongue torn out with hot pincers for mentioning the very name of a noble damsel!  With lips blistered with the confession of thine own dishonour—­that thou shouldest now dare—­name her not—­for an instant think not of her.”

“Not name—­not think of her?” answered Sir Kenneth.  “Now by the cross on which I place my hope, her name shall be the last word in my mouth.  Try thy boasted strength on this bare brow, and see if thou canst prevent my purpose.”

“He will drive me mad,” said Richard, once more staggered by the dauntless determination of the criminal.

A bustle was heard and the arrival of the queen was announced.

“Detain her, Neville,” cried the king.  “Away with him, De Vaux; let him have a ghostly father—­and, hark thee, we will not have him dishonoured; he shall die knight-like in his belt and spurs.”

The entrance of Queen Berengaria was withstood by the chamberlain, and she could hear the stern commands of the king from within to the executioner.  Edith could no longer remain silent: 

“I will make entrance for your grace,” she said, putting aside the chamberlain.

On their sudden entrance Richard flung himself hastily aside, turning his back to them as if displeased.

“Thou seest, Edith,” whispered the queen, “we shall but incense him.”

“Be it so,” said Edith, stepping forward.  “I—­your poor kinswoman, crave you for justice rather than mercy, and to that cry the ear of a monarch should be ever open.”

“Ha! our cousin Edith!” said Richard, rising.  “She speaks ever king-like, and king-like I will answer her.”

“My lord,” she said, “this good knight whose blood you are about to spill hath fallen from his duty through a snare set for him in idleness and folly.  A message sent to him in the name of one—­why should I not speak it?—­it was in my own—­induced him to leave his post.”

“And you saw him then, cousin?” said the king, biting his lips to keep down his passion.  “Where?”

“In the tent of her majesty, the queen.”

“Of your royal consort!  Now, by my father’s soul, Edith, thou shalt rue this thy life long in a monastery.”

“My liege,” said Edith, “your greatness licences tyranny.  My honour is as little touched as yours, and my lady, the queen, can prove it if she thinks fit.  But I have not come here to excuse myself or inculpate others—­”

The king was about to answer with much anger, when a Carmelite monk entered hastily, and flinging himself on his knees before the king, conjured him to stop the execution.  It was the hermit of Engaddi, and to the king’s fierce refusal to listen, he said with irritation: 

“Thou art setting that mischief on foot thou wilt afterwards wish thou hadst stopped, though it had cost thee a limb.  Rash, blinded man, forbear!”

“Away, away,” cried the king, stamping.  “The sun has risen on the dishonour of England, and it is not yet avenged.  Ladies and priests withdraw, for by St. George, I swear—­”