Had owned it true that his serfs had found A treasure buried somewhere in the ground,-- Perhaps not strictly a nugget: Though none but Norman lawyers chose To count it tort, if the finders "froze" To treasure-trove,--especially those Who held the land where they dug it,-- For quits he'd give up half,--down,--cash; And that, for one who had gone to smash, Was a liberal restitution: His neighbor Shent-per-Shent did sue On a better claim, and put it through,-- Recovered his suit, but not a _sou_ At the tail of an execution. Coeur gazed around with the ominous glare Of the lion deprived of the lion's share,-- A look there was no mistaking,-- A look which the courtiers never saw Without a sudden desire to draw Away from the sweep of the lion's paw Before their bones were aching. He caught the herald,--'twas by the slack Of garments below and behind his back,-- Then twirled him round for a minute; And when at last he let him free, He shied him at a neighboring tree, A distance of thirty yards and three, And lodged him handsomely in it: Then seized his ponderous battle-axe, And bade his followers mount their hacks, With a look on his countenance _so_ stern, So little of fun, so full of fight, That, when he came in the Count's full sight, In something of haste and more of fright, The Count rode out of the postern; And crowding leagues from his angry liege, He left his castle to storm or siege,-- His poor beef-eaters to hold out, Or save themselves as well as they could, Or be food for crows: what noble should Waste thought on such? As a noble would, He prudently smuggled the gold out. In the feudal days, in the good old times Of feudal virtues and feudal crimes, A point of honor they'd make in it, Though sure in the end their flag must fall, To show stout fight and never to call A truce till they saw a hole in the wall Or a larder without any steak in it. The fight began. Shouts filled the air,-- "St. George!" "St. Denis!"--as here and there The shock of the battle shifted; There were catapult-shots and shots by hand, Ladders with desperate climbers manned, Rams and rocks, hot lead, and sand On the heads of the climbers sifted. But the sturdy churls would not give way, Though Richard in person rushed to the fray With all of his rash proclivity For knocks; till, despairing of knightly fame In doughty deeds for a doubtful claim, The hero of Jaffa changed his game To a masterly inactivity. He stretched his lines in a circle round, And pitched his tent on a rising ground For general supervision Of both the hostile camps, while he Could join with Blondel in minstrel glee, Or drink, or dice with Marcadee, And _they_--consume provision.