’The Lion is a royal beast, a king, whose son am I. We maul not each other in Anjou, save when the jackal from the South cometh snarling between.  Then, when we see the unclean beast, saith one, “Faugh! is this your friend?” and the other, “Thou dost ill to say so.”  Then the blood may flow and the jackal get a meal.  But here there is none to come licking blood.  The prize is the White Roe of France, fed on the French lilies, and now in safe harbour.  She shall lie by the Leopard, and the Lion rule the forest in peace because of the peace about him; and like a harvest moon above us, clear of the trees, will be Jehane.’

‘Listen, Richard, I will be clearer yet,’ came from between Bertran’s teeth.  He fairly ground them together.  Having the viol, he struck but one note upon it, with such rudeness that the string broke.  He threw the thing away and sang without it, leaning his hands on his knees, and craning forward that he might spit the words.

’This is the bite of the song:  she is forsworn.  Harbour?  She kept harbour too long; she is mangled, she is torn.  Touch not the Lion’s prey, Leopard.  You go hunting too late—­for all but sorrow and shame.’

Richard stretched not his hand again; his jaw dropped and most of the strong colour died down in his face.  Turned to stone, stiff and immovable, he sat staring at the singer, while Bertran, biting his lip, still grinning and twitching with his late effort, watched him.

‘Give me the truth, thou.’  His voice was like an old man’s, hollow.

‘As God is in heaven that is the truth, Richard,’ said Bertran de Born.

The Count’s head went up, as when a hound yelps to the sky:  laughter ensued, barking laughter—­not mirth, not grief disguised, but mockery, the worst of all.  One on the gallery nudged his fellow; that other shrugged him off.  Richard stretched his long arms, his clenched fists to the dumb sky.  ’Have I bent the knee to good issues or not?  Have I abased my head?  O clement prince!  O judge in Israel!  O father of kings!  Hear now a parable of the Prodigal:  Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and thou art no more worthy to be called my father.  O glutton!  O filching dog!’

‘By the torch of the Gospel, Count Richard, what I sang is true,’ said Bertran, still tensely grinning, and now also wringing at his hang-nails.  Richard, checked by the voice, turned blazing upon him.

’Why, thou school-boy rhymester, that is the only merit thou hast, and that not thine own!  Thy japes are nought, thy tragics the mewing of cats; but thy news, fellow, thy news is too rich matter for thy sewer of a throat.  Tragic?  No, it is worse:  it is comic, O heaven!  Heed you now—­’ In his bitter shame he began pantomiming with his fingers:—­’Here are two persons, father by the Grace of God, son by the grace of the father.  Saith father, “Son, thou art sprung from kings; take this woman that is sprung from kings, for I have no further use for her.”