The King looked his best on a throne, for his upper part was his best.  It was, at least, the mannish part.  With scanty red hair much rubbed into disorder, a seamed red face, blotched and shining; with a square jaw awry, the neck and shoulders of a bull; with gnarled gross hands at the end of arms long out of measure, a cruel mouth and a nose like a bird’s beak—­his features seemed to have been hacked coarsely out of wood and as coarsely painted; but what might have passed by such means for a man was transformed by his burning eyes, with their fuel of pain, into the similitude of a fallen angel.  The devil of Anjou sat eating King Henry’s eyes, and you saw him at his meal.  It gave the man the look of a wild boar easing his tusks against a tree, horrible, yet content to be abhorred, splendid, because so strong and lonely.  But the prospect was not comfortable.  Little as he knew of his father, Richard could make no mistake here.  The old King was in a picksome mood, fretted by rage:  angry that his son should kneel there, more than angry that he had not knelt before.

The play began, like a farce.  The King affected not to see him, let him kneel on.  Richard did kneel on, as stiff as a rod.  The King talked with obscene jocosity, every snap betraying his humour, to Prince John; he scandalised even his bishops, he abashed even his barons.  He infinitely degraded himself, yet seemed to wallow in disgrace.  So Richard’s gorge (a tender organ) rose to hear him.  ’God, what wast Thou about, to let such a hog be made?’ he muttered, loud enough for at least three people to hear.  The King heard it and was pleased; the Prince heard it, and with a scared eye perceived that Bohun had heard it.  The King went grating on, John fidgeted; Bohun, greatly daring, whispered in his master’s ear.

The King replied with a roar which all the camp might have heard.  ’Ha!  Sacred Face, let him kneel, Bohun.  That is a new custom for him, useful science for a man of his trade.  All men of the sword come to it sooner or later—­sooner or later, by God!’

Hereupon Richard, very deliberately, rose to his feet and stepped forward to the throne.  His great height was a crowning abomination.  The King blinked up at him, showing his tushes.

‘What now, sir?’ he said.

‘Later for me, sire, if kneeling is to be done by soldiers,’ said Richard.  The King controlled himself by swallowing.

‘And yet, Richard,’ he said, dry as dust, ’And yet, Richard, you have knelt to the French lad soon enough.’

‘To my liege-lord, sire?  Yes, it is true.’

‘He is not your liege-lord, man,’ roared the King.  ’I am your liege-lord, by heaven.  I gave and I can take away.  Heed me now.’

‘Fair sire,’ says Richard, ’observe that I have knelt to you.  I am not here for any other reason, and least of all to try conclusions of the voice.  I have come out of my lands with my company to give you obedience.  Be sure that they, on their part, will pay you proper honour (as I do) if you will let them.’