’Sire, it is because he pretends that his father, the old King, has done him dishonour.  Says the Count, Madame Alois might be my stepmother, never my wife.’

‘Deus!’ said the King.  ‘Bertran, is this the truth?’

That was a question for which Bertran was fully prepared.  He always had it put, and always gave the same answer.  ‘As I am a Christian, sire,’ he said, ‘the Gospel is no truer.’

To which King Sancho replied, ’I do most devoutly believe in the Holy Gospel, whatever any Arabian may say to the contrary.  But is it for this, pray, that you propose to light candles of war in Navarre?’

‘Ah,’ said Bertran, with his hand scratching in his vest, ’I light no candles, my lord; but I counsel you to light them.’

‘Phew!’ said King Sancho, and stuck his arms out; ’on whose account, Bertran, on whose account?’

Bertran replied savagely, ’On account of Dame Alois slandered, of her brother France deceived in his hope, of the English King strangely accused, of his son John (a hopeful prince, Benjamin of a second Israel), and of Queen Eleanor of England, of whose kindred your Grace is.’

‘Deus!  Oy, Deus!’ cried King Sancho, pale with amazement, ’and are all these thrones in arms, lighting candles against Count Richard?’

‘It is so indeed, sire,’ says Bertran; and King Sancho frowned, with this comment—­’There seems little chivalry here, take it as you will.’  Next he inquired, where was the Count of Poictou?

Bertran was ready.  ’He rages his lands, sire, like a leopard caged.  Now and again he raids the marches, harries France or Anjou, and withdraws.’

‘And the King his father, Bertran, where is he?  Far off, I hope.’

‘He,’ said Bertran, ’is in Normandy with a host, seeking the head of his son Richard on a charger.’

‘The great man that he is!’ cried Don Sancho.  Bertran could not contain himself.

’Great or not, he is to pay his debts!  The old rascal stag is rotten with fever.’

I suppose Don Sancho was not called Wise for nothing.  At any rate he sat for a while considering the man before him.  Then he asked, where was King Philip?

‘Sire,’ replied Bertran, ’he is in his city of Paris, comforting Dame Alois, and assembling his estates for Count Richard’s flank.’

‘And Prince John?’

‘Oh, sire, he has friends.  He waits.  Watch for him presently.’

King Sancho frowned his forehead into furrows, and allowed himself a hair or two of his beard.  ‘We will think of it, Bertran,’ he said presently.  ’Yes, we will think of it, after our own fashion.  God rest you, Bertran, pray go refresh yourself.’  So he dismissed him.