“And yield you Ellinor?” de Gatinais said.  “Oh no, messire, I reply to you with Arnaud de Marveil, that marvellous singer of eld, ’They may bear her from my presence, but they can never untie the knot which unites my heart to her; for that heart, so tender and so constant, God alone divides with my lady, and the portion which God possesses He holds but as a part of her domain, and as her vassal.’” “This is blasphemy,” Prince Edward now retorted, “and for such observations alone you merit death.  Will you always talk and talk and talk?  I perceive that the devil is far more subtle than you, messire, and leads you, like a pig with a ring in his nose, toward gross iniquity.  Messire, I tell you that for your soul’s health I doubly mean to kill you now.  So let us make an end of this.”

De Gatinais turned and took up his sword.  “Since you will have it,” he rather regretfully said; “yet I reiterate that you play an absurd part.  Your wife has deserted you, has fled in abhorrence of you.  For three weeks she has been tramping God knows whither or in what company—­”

He was here interrupted.  “What the Lady Ellinor has done,” Prince Edward crisply said, “was at my request.  We were wedded at Burgos; it was natural that we should desire our reunion to take place at Burgos; and she came to Burgos with an escort which I provided.”

De Gatinais sneered.  “So that is the tale you will deliver to the world?”

“After I have slain you,” the Prince said, “yes.”

“The reservation is wise.  For if I were dead, Messire Edward, there would be none to know that you risk all for a drained goblet, for an orange already squeezed—­quite dry, messire.”

“Face of God!” the Prince said.

But de Gatinais flung back both arms in a great gesture, so that he knocked a flask of claret from the table at his rear.  “I am candid, my Prince.  I would not see any brave gentleman slain in a cause so foolish.  In consequence I kiss and tell.  In effect, I was eloquent, I was magnificent, so that in the end her reserve was shattered like the wooden flask yonder at our feet.  Is it worth while, think you, that our blood flow like this flagon’s contents?”

“Liar!” Prince Edward said, very softly.  “O hideous liar!  Already your eyes shift!” He drew near and struck the Frenchman.  “Talk and talk and talk! and lying talk!  I am ashamed while I share the world with a thing as base as you.”

De Gatinais hurled upon him, cursing, sobbing in an abandoned fury.  In an instant the place resounded like a smithy, for there were no better swordsmen living than these two.  The eavesdropper could see nothing clearly.  Round and round they veered in a whirl of turmoil.  Presently Prince Edward trod upon the broken flask, smashing it.  His foot slipped in the spilth of wine, and the huge body went down like an oak, his head striking one leg of the table.

“A candle!” de Gatinais cried, and he panted now—­“a hundred candles to the Virgin of Beaujolais!” He shortened his sword to stab the Prince of England.