their prayers, scarce knowing what I was or did (save that I loved King Richard), I whipt forward with a handkerchief to cover the horror out of sight.  This I would have done, though all had seen it; the King had seen it, and that white-hearted traitor Count had seen it, and sprung away with a wail, “O Christ!  O Christ!” The King stood up, and with his lifted hand stopped me in the pious act.  All held their breaths.  I saw the priest at the altar peer round the corner, his mouth making a ring.  King Richard was very pale and serious.  He began to talk to his father, while the Count lay cowering on the pavement.

’"Thou thinkest me thy slayer, father,” he said, “pointing at me the murder-sign.  Well, I am content to take it; for be thou sure of this, that if that last war between us was rightfully begun it was rightfully ended.  And of righteousness I think I am as good a judge as ever thou wert.  Thy work is done, and mine is to do.  If I may be as kingly as thou wert, I shall please thee yet; and if I fail in that I shall never blame thee, father.  Now, Abbot Milo,” he concluded, “cover the face.”  So I did, and Count John got up to his knees again, and looked at his brother.

’This was not the end.  Madame Alois of France came into the church through the nuns’ door, dressed all in grey, with a great grey hood on her head, and after her women in the same habit.  She came hastily, with a quick shuffling motion of the feet, as if she was gliding; and by the bier she stood still, questing with her eyes from side to side, like a hunted thing.  King Richard she saw, for he was standing up; but still she looked about and about.  Now Count John was kneeling in the shadow, so she saw him last; but once meeting his deplorable eyes with her own she never left go again.  Whatever she did (and it was much), or whatever said (and her mouth was pregnant), was with a fixed gaze on him.

’Being on the other side of the bier from him she watched, she put her arms over the dead body, as a priest at mass broods upon the Host he is making.  And looking shrewdly at the Count, “If the dead could speak, John,” she said, “if the dead could speak, how think you it would report concerning you and me?”

’"Ha, Madame!” says Count John, shaking like a leafy tree, “what is this?” Madame Alois removed my handkerchief.  The horror was still there.

’"He did me kindness,” she said, looking wistfully at the empty face; “he tried to serve me this way and that way.”  She stroked it, then looked again at the Count.  “But then you came, John; and you he loved above all.  How have you served him, John, my bonny lad?  Eh, Saviour!” She looked up on high—­“Eh, Saviour, if the dead could speak!”

’No more than the dead could John speak; but King Richard answered her.

’"Madame,” he said, “the dead hath spoken, and I have answered it.  That is the kingly office, I think, to stand before God for the people.  Let no other speak.  All is said.”