Sire Edward strode to the window and raised big hands toward the spear-points of the aloof stars.  “Master of us all!” he cried; “O Father of us all! the Hammer of the Scots am I! the Scourge of France, the conqueror of Llewellyn and of Leicester, and the flail of the accursed race that slew Thine only Son! the King of England am I, who have made of England an imperial nation, and have given to Thy Englishmen new laws!  And to-night I crave my hire.  Never, O my Father, have I had of any person aught save reverence or hatred! never in my life has any person loved me!  And I am old, my Father—­I am old, and presently I die.  As I have served Thee—­as Jacob wrestled with Thee at the ford of Jabbok—­at the place of Peniel—­” Against the tremulous blue and silver of the forest the Princess saw how horribly the big man was shaken.  “My hire! my hire!” he hoarsely said.  “Forty long years, my Father!  And now I will not let Thee go except Thou hear me, and grant me life and this woman’s love.”

He turned, stark and black in the rearward splendor of the moon. "As a prince hast thou power with God," he calmly said, "and thou hast prevailed. For the King of kings was never obdurate, my dear, to them that have deserved well of Him.  So He will attend to my request, and will get us out of this pickle somehow.”

Even as he said this, Philippe the Handsome came into the room, and at the heels of the French King were seven lords, armed cap-a-pie.

The French King was an odd man.  Subtly smiling, he came forward through the twilight, with soft, long strides, and he made no outcry at recognition of his sister.  “Take the woman away, Victor,” he said, disinterestedly, to de Montespan.  Afterward he sat down beside the table and remained silent for a while, intently regarding Sire Edward and the tiny woman who clung to Sire Edward’s arm; and in the flickering gloom of the hut Philippe smiled as an artist may smile who gazes on the perfected work and knows it to be adroit.

“You prefer to remain, my sister?” he said presently.  “He bien! it happens that to-night I am in a mood for granting almost any favor.  A little later and I will attend to your merits.”  The fleet disorder of his visage had lapsed again into the meditative smile which was that of Lucifer watching a toasted soul.  “And so it ends,” he said, “and England loses to-night the heir that Manuel the Redeemer provided.  Conqueror of Scotland, Scourge of France!  O unconquerable king! and will the worms of Ermenoueil, then, pause to-morrow to consider through what a glorious turmoil their dinner came to them?”

“Do you design to murder me?” Sire Edward said.

The French King shrugged.  “I design that within this moment my lords shall slay you while I sit here and do not move a finger.  Is it not good to be a king, my cousin, and to sit quite still, and to see your bitterest enemy hacked and slain,—­and all the while to sit quite still, quite unruffled, as a king should always be?  Eh, eh!  I never lived until to-night!”