“Now, by Heaven,” said Sire Edward, “I am your kinsman and your guest, I am unarmed—­”

Philippe bowed his head.  “Undoubtedly,” he assented, “the deed is foul.  But I desire Gascony very earnestly, and so long as you live you will never permit me to retain Gascony.  Hence it is quite necessary, you conceive, that I murder you.  What!” he presently said, “will you not beg for mercy?  I had hoped,” the French King added, somewhat wistfully, “that you might be afraid to die, O huge and righteous man! and would entreat me to spare you.  To spurn the weeping conqueror of Llewellyn, say ...  But these sins which damn one’s soul are in actual performance very tedious affairs; and I begin to grow aweary of the game.  He bien! now kill this man for me, messieurs.”

The English King strode forward.  “Shallow trickster!” Sire Edward thundered. "Am I not afraid? You grimacing baby, do you think to ensnare a lion with such a flimsy rat-trap?  Wise persons do not hunt lions with these contraptions:  for it is the nature of a rat-trap, fair cousin, to ensnare not the beast which imperiously desires and takes in daylight, but the tinier and the filthier beast that covets meanly and attacks under the cover of darkness—­as do you and your seven skulkers!” The man was rather terrible; not a Frenchman within the hut but had drawn back a little.

“Listen!” Sire Edward said, and he came yet farther toward the King of France and shook at him one forefinger; “when you were in your cradle I was leading armies.  When you were yet unbreeched I was lord of half Europe.  For thirty years I have driven kings before me as did Fierabras.  Am I, then, a person to be hoodwinked by the first big-bosomed huzzy that elects to waggle her fat shoulders and to grant an assignation in a forest expressly designed for stabbings?  You baby, is the Hammer of the Scots the man to trust for one half moment a Capet?  Ill-mannered infant,” the King said, with bitter laughter, “it is now necessary that I summon my attendants and remove you to a nursery which I have prepared in England.”  He set the horn to his lips and blew three blasts.  There came many armed warriors into the hut, bearing ropes.  Here was the entire retinue of the Earl of Aquitaine.  Cursing, Sire Philippe sprang upon the English King, and with a dagger smote at the impassive big man’s heart.  The blade broke against the mail armor under the tunic.  “Have I not told you,” Sire Edward wearily said, “that one may never trust a Capet?  Now, messieurs, bind these carrion and convey them whither I have directed you.  Nay, but, Roger—­” He conversed apart with his son, the Earl of Pevensey, and what Sire Edward commanded was done.  The French King and seven lords of France went from that hut trussed like chickens ready for the oven.

And now Sire Edward turned toward Meregrett and chafed his big hands gleefully.  “At every tree-bole a tethered horse awaits us; and a ship awaits our party at Fecamp.  To-morrow we sleep in England—­and, Mort de Dieu! do you not think, madame, that once within my very persuasive Tower of London, your brother and I may come to some agreement over Guienne?”