“They have slain our captain! Kill—kill!” CHAPTER XXV A flare of light leapt into Fulk’s eyes. His figure seemed to dilate, to tower higher on his white horse. He was lifted up, the god of a great moment. The peasants were bending their bows. Bills, pikes, scythes, and clubs waved in the air. Their shouts were like the cries of wild beasts. Fulk drove the spurs into his horse and rode forward. “Sirs, what would you? Listen to me—your King.” They faltered and stood still, staring upon him, their bows half bent, their weapons wavering. Out before them all leapt a fanatic figure, a figure in a brown smock and green hood, a figure that tossed its arms and foamed at the mouth. It was Merlin, inarticulate for the moment, smothered by his own frenzy. “A lie, a lie! Hear, men of the fields!” A second figure sprang forward, waving a red kerchief. It was Isoult. Fulk saw the crest of the wave about to break on him and his company. Merlin’s mouth was a red circle, open to shout the truth. Then a closed hand swept up and round, and opened its fingers within a foot of its face. Never had simpler stuff served more nobly. Merlin’s mouth and eyes were full of red pepper. He choked, ground his knuckles into his eyes, tried to speak, but was bent double with anguish. Isoult stood forward, laughing, and waving her kerchief. “A jest, a noble jest! The King, the King!” His voice carried. “Sirs, the King—our King! Hear him!” Fulk turned in the saddle, and spoke to Cavendish, who had followed him. “Cavendish, as you love honour, look to that woman yonder. Guard her for me with your life. Bring Wat’s horse to me. Speed!” He spurred his horse, and rode forward to the very edge of the crowd, looking on these men of the fields with masterful eyes and holding up a hand for silence. “Sirs, sirs, I am your King. We have slain a traitor—a traitor who dared to lay a hand upon his sword. Follow me. I—King Richard—will be your captain.” Some cheered, others looked at him sullenly. He rode his white horse to and fro in front of them, and then drew rein beside Isoult. “A horse—a horse!” Cavendish came leading dead Wat’s black horse. Fulk looked at Isoult, and she at him, and in that glance all their valour and passion met and mingled. “Sirs, I am King Richard. Behold the Queen of the Commons. Behold your Queen!” Isoult understood. Cavendish gave her his hand and knee, and she was on the black horse’s back, facing the crowd and smiling. Fulk saluted her; eyes and heart were in that homage. “Men of England, behold the Queen of the Commons. I am Richard, your captain. Now, by the splendour of God, I charge you follow me.” He had won them. They cheered, surged round him, waving their caps and hoods on the points of their bows and bills. Merlin, a coughing, sneezing, impotently raging thing, was smothered in the eddies of the crowd. Fulk stretched out a hand for Isoult’s. He spoke to her, looking in her eyes.