“First you will hear me out,” John Copeland said.

“It would appear,” the King retorted, “that I have little choice.”

At this time John Copeland began:  “Sire, you are the mightiest monarch your race has known.  England is yours, France is yours, conquered Scotland lies prostrate at your feet.  To-day there is no other man in all the world who possesses a tithe of your glory; yet twenty years ago Madame Philippa first beheld you and loved you, an outcast, an exiled, empty-pocketed prince.  Twenty years ago the love of Madame Philippa, great Count William’s daughter, got for you the armament with which England was regained.  Twenty years ago but for Madame Philippa you had died naked in some ditch.”

“Go on,” the King said presently.

“Afterward you took a fancy to reign in France.  You learned then that we Brabanters are a frugal people:  Madame Philippa was wealthy when she married you, and twenty years had quadrupled her private fortune.  She gave you every penny of it that you might fit out this expedition; now her very crown is in pawn at Ghent.  In fine, the love of Madame Philippa gave you France as lightly as one might bestow a toy upon a child who whined for it.”

The King fiercely said, “Go on.”

“Eh, sire, I intend to.  You left England undefended that you might posture a little in the eyes of Europe.  And meanwhile a woman preserves England, a woman gives you Scotland as a gift, and in return asks nothing—­God have mercy on us!—­save that you nightly chafe your feet with a bit of woollen.  You hear of it—­and inquire, ’Where is Madame de Salisbury?’ Here beyond doubt is the cock of Aesop’s fable,” snarled John Copeland, “who unearthed a gem and grumbled that his diamond was not a grain of corn.”

“You shall be hanged at dawn,” the King replied.  “Meanwhile spit out your venom.”

“I say to you, then,” John Copeland continued, “that to-day you are master of Europe.  I say to you that, but for this woman whom for twenty years you have neglected, you would to-day be mouldering in some pauper’s grave.  Eh, without question, you most magnanimously loved that shrew of Salisbury! because you fancied the color of her eyes, Sire Edward, and admired the angle between her nose and her forehead.  Minstrels unborn will sing of this great love of yours.  Meantime I say to you”—­now the man’s rage was monstrous—­“I say to you, go home to your too-tedious wife, the source of all your glory! sit at her feet! and let her teach you what love is!” He flung away the dagger.  “There you have the truth.  Now summon your attendants, my tres beau sire, and have me hanged.”

The King made no movement.  “You have been bold—­” he said at last.

“But you have been far bolder, sire.  For twenty years you have dared to flout that love which is God’s noblest heritage to His children.”

King Edward sat in meditation for a long while.  The squinting of his left eye was now very noticeable.  “I consider my wife’s clerk,” he drily said, “to discourse of love in somewhat too much the tone of a lover.”  And a flush was his reward.