Slowly they wound through the tangled wood.  “Stay, I will lighten thy burden for thee,” said Robert, “if thou hast not left the bottle behind.  Here’s to the fair Bertha.  What, thou wilt not drink?  Then thou hast resigned her;—­she is not worth a thought.  Thou wilt not peril thy life to see her again, the false one who careth not for thee.  Now depart, and when the king’s wrath is overpast, I will beseech him for thee.  Leave thy cause in a brother’s hands.”  But Richard went not back, though, when they came to the edge of the wood, they beheld the king’s train advancing in the broad highway.

“Fly, Richard; escape while thou mayest!” cried Robert, yet offered he not the horse for the greater speed.  “Found on English ground, thou diest a felon’s death.  Disgrace not thy family.  Carest thou not for life?” he cried, pursuing Richard, who stinted not, nor stayed, at the sight of the king, but the rather hasted forward.

“What is life to me?” said Richard.  “Let the king do with me as he will.”  He strode onward proudly, with folded arms, offering himself to the view of Edward, who as yet saw him not, or only as a forester.

“Halt at least that I may spur on and implore for thee,” said Robert, for he hoped that he might deliver him a prisoner to some one in attendance, that he should not come to speech of the king.

With this wily purpose, he galloped forward.  A shout arose, “The traitor!  The traitor!” He was made prisoner by no gentle hands, and, at a nod from the king, found himself led away to the rear, but not far removed.

He looked about for Richard.  Could he not yet wave him back?  Should the king see that noble face, he must be moved to mercy, at least so far as to give him audience.  The brothers know not yet that all is reversed.  Robert sees a man in russet clothing kneel at the king’s stirrup; he sees the royal hand extended to raise him; he sees many press forward eager to welcome the wanderer.  He turns away, sick at the sight.

One look more.  Bertha has thrown herself into the arms of his hated brother.  He tears his beard; he curses his own natal day, and the stars that presided over his birth and destiny.

Yet must he look once more, though to an envious soul the sight of a brother’s happiness is like the torment of purgatorial fire.  Richard is standing with his hand extended towards him.  He is pleading the cause of the mean and cowardly enemy who betrayed him.  He pities and forgives him; he even loves him still, for is he not his brother?  As the eyes of the king and of all the surrounding crowd are turned on him, burning shame subdues the warring passions that fill the heart of Robert, and a faint emotion of gratitude brings a tear to fall upon his hot cheek.  Something of old, childish love awakes in his bosom, like dew in a dry land.

The king granted Richard’s prayer, the more readily because his anger was smothered by contempt.  The title and inheritance returned to the heir, who was worthy his ancient name.  Robert, to the day of his death, lived on his brother’s bounty, harmless, the rather that the king’s decree had gone forth that in no case should he be Richard’s successor, or inherit aught from him.