brave race that had fought round the gallant Count:—­only one, and but a boy, a fair-haired boy, a blue-eyed boy! he had been gathering pansies in the fields but yesterday—­it was but a few years, and he was a baby in his mother’s arms!  What could his puny sword do against the most redoubted blade in Christendom?—­and yet Bohemond faced the great champion of England, and met him foot to foot!  Turn away, turn away, my dear young friends and kind-hearted ladies!  Do not look at that ill-fated poor boy! his blade is crushed into splinters under the axe of the conqueror, and the poor child is beaten to his knee! . . .

“Now, by St. Barbacue of Limoges,” said Bertrand de Gourdon, “the butcher will never strike down yonder lambling!  Hold thy hand, Sir King, or, by St. Barbacue—­”

Swift as thought the veteran archer raised his arblast to his shoulder, the whizzing bolt fled from the ringing string, and the next moment crashed quivering into the corselet of Plantagenet.

’Twas a luckless shot, Bertrand of Gourdon!  Maddened by the pain of the wound, the brute nature of Richard was aroused:  his fiendish appetite for blood rose to madness, and grinding his teeth, and with a curse too horrible to mention, the flashing axe of the royal butcher fell down on the blond ringlets of the child, and the children of Chalus were no more! . . .

I just throw this off by way of description, and to show what might be done if I chose to indulge in this style of composition; but as in the battles which are described by the kindly chronicler, of one of whose works this present masterpiece is professedly a continuation, everything passes off agreeably—­the people are slain, but without any unpleasant sensation to the reader; nay, some of the most savage and blood-stained characters of history, such is the indomitable good-humor of the great novelist, become amiable, jovial companions, for whom one has a hearty sympathy—­so, if you please, we will have this fighting business at Chalus, and the garrison and honest Bertrand of Gourdon, disposed of; the former, according to the usage of the good old times, having been hung up or murdered to a man, and the latter killed in the manner described by the late Dr. Goldsmith in his History.

As for the Lion-hearted, we all very well know that the shaft of Bertrand de Gourdon put an end to the royal hero—­and that from that 29th of March he never robbed nor murdered any more.  And we have legends in recondite books of the manner of the King’s death.

“You must die, my son,” said the venerable Walter of Rouen, as Berengaria was carried shrieking from the King’s tent.  “Repent, Sir King, and separate yourself from your children!”

“It is ill jesting with a dying man,” replied the King.  “Children have I none, my good lord bishop, to inherit after me.”

“Richard of England,” said the archbishop, turning up his fine eyes, “your vices are your children.  Ambition is your eldest child, Cruelty is your second child, Luxury is your third child; and you have nourished them from your youth up.  Separate yourself from these sinful ones, and prepare your soul, for the hour of departure draweth nigh.”