’She would have had her own answer ready to that, good soul, but that the leper gave her another.  In a low, urgent voice she answered, “Ah, sweet lord, I must never leave thee now”—­as if to ask, Was there need?  So he went on talking to her, lover talk, teasing talk, to see what she would say; and all the while Jehane stood very near him, with her face held between his two hands as closely as wine is held by a cup.  To whatever he chose to say, and in whatever fashion, whether strokingly (as to a beloved child), or gruffly (in sport) as one speaks to a pet dog, she replied in very meek manner, eyeing him intently, “Yea, Richard,” or “Nay, Richard,” agreeing with him always.  This he observed.  “They call me Yea-and-Nay, dear girl,” he said, “and thou hast learned it of them.  But I warn thee, Jehane, ma mie, I am in a mood of Yea this night.  Therefore deny me not.”

’"Lord, I shall never deny thee,” says Jehane, red as a rose.  And reason enough!  I remembered the words; for while she said them, it is certain she was praying how best she might make herself a liar, like Saint Peter.

’Pretty matters! on the faith I profess.  And if a man, who is king of men, may not play with his young wife, I know not who may play with her.  That is my answer to King Philip Augustus, who fretted and chafed at this harmless performance.  As for Saint-Pol, who ground his teeth over it, I would have a different answer for him.’

I have given Milo his full tether; but there are things to say which he knew nothing about.  Richard was changed, for all his wild mood of that night; nor was Jehane slow to perceive it.  Perhaps, indeed, she was too quick, with her wit oversharpened by her uneasy conscience.  But that night she saw, or thought she saw this in Richard:  that whereas the righting of her had been his only concern before the day of the bowing Rood, now he had another concern.  And the next day, when at dawn he left her and was with his Council until dinner, she knew it for sure.  After dinner (which he scarcely ate) he rose and visited King Philip.  With him, the Legate and the Archbishops, he remained till late at night.  Day succeeded day in this manner.  The French King, the Duke, and their trains went to Paris.  Then came Guy of Lusignan, King (and no king) of Jerusalem, for help.  Richard promised him his, not because he liked him any better than the Marquess (who kept him out), but because Guy’s title seemed to him a good one.  At bottom Richard was as deliberate as a pair of scales; and just now was acting the perfect king, the very touchstone of justice.  Through all this time of great doings Jehane stayed quaking at home, sitting strangely among her women—­a countess who knew she was none, a queen by nature who dreaded to be queen by law.  Yet one thing she dreaded more.  She was in a horrible pass.  Wife of a dead man and his killer!  Why, what should she do?  She dared not go on playing wife to the champion of heaven, and yet she dared not leave him lest she should be snatched into the arms of his assassin.  On which horn should she impale her poor heart?  She tried to wring prayers out of it, she tried to moisten her aching eyes with the dew of tears.  Slowly, by agony of effort, she approached her bosom to the steel.  One night Richard came to her, and she drove herself to speak.  He came, and she fenced him off.