The other ceased his pacing, flung himself down on a seat before the fire, and leaned forward with clasped hands and bent head. He sat thus for an appreciable time, then with a deep breath straightened himself. “When she was the Lady Madeleine the Abbess Madeleine ruled a great realm in my life. God knoweth, in much she is still my helm!... Sit you down and let us talk.” CHAPTER XXV RICHARD LION-HEART THE sun came up and lighted Angoulême, town and castle, hill and valley. Light and warmth increased. The town began to murmur like a hive, clack like a mill, clang and sound as though armourers were working. Angoulême had breakfast and turned with vigour the wheel of the day. The Count of Beauvoisin rode with a small following to the Abbey of the Fountain, to see his kinswoman the Abbess Madeleine. Duke Richard Lion-Heart did what he did, and felt what he felt, and believed what he believed, with intensity. He was as religious as an acquiescent thunderbolt in Jehovah’s hand. Where-ever he came, a kind of jewelled sunshine played about the branches, in that place, of the Vine the Church. It might shine with fitfulness, but the fitfulness was less than the shining. His vassals knew his quality; when they were with him or where his eye oversaw their conduct, the ritual of a religious life received sharpened attention. The Abbey of the Fountain was a noble House of Nuns, known afar for its piety, scholarship, and good works. Richard, coming to Angoulême, had sent a gift and asked for the prayers of the Abbess Madeleine, whom the region held for nigh a saint. Offering and request had been borne by the Count of Beauvoisin, who was the Abbess’s kinsman. It was not strange in the eyes of any that he should ride again to the Abbey of the Fountain, this time, perhaps, with his own soul’s good in mind. With him rode the knight who had come to the count’s house in Angoulême in the guise of a jongleur. That was not strange, either—if the knight were acquaintance or friend, and if some wolfish danger had forced him to become a fugitive from his own proper setting, or if romance and whim were responsible, or if he had taken a vow. Yesterday he had been a jongleur with a very golden voice. To-day he appeared a belted knight, dressed by the count, given a horse and a place in his train. He was called the “Knight of the Wood.” Probably it was not his true name. Chivalry knew these transformations, and upheld them as an integer in its own sum of rights. The knight would have a reason, be it as solid as the ground, or be it formed of rose-hued mist, solid only to his own imagination! For the rest, he seemed a noble knight. The count showed him favour, but not enough to awaken criticism, making others fear displacement.