“My desire, I had thought you dead.” “I am alive, to soar with you, brave falcon.” She gazed at him with strange, passionate pride. “Ah, King of the Burning Heart!” “I am the green leaf of the rose. By my soul, I know that you dared death.” He kissed her hand before them all, and the mob shouted. “Long live King Richard and the Queen of the Commons.” When they would give him silence he shouted, “Sirs, follow me.” And they followed him like sheep into the open fields about Islington. Isoult’s eyes were on Fulk as they rode, but now and again she glanced back at the crowding faces of the mob. “What will you do with them?” “Bide my time. Men are coming who will not fail us.” He did not trust in vain. Fulk had drawn rein, and the mob had spread out over a stretch of grass land, trampling the uncut hay under their feet when a cloud of dust arose between them and the city. Spear points and pennons caught the sunlight, and across the fields Robert Knollys came riding at the head of a thousand men. They bulked bigger than their number, thundering in close order, trumpets screaming, spears bristling, with a clash and jingle of steel. Behind them came Walworth the Mayor, at the head of certain city bands, bows strung, and brown bills flashing. “Come.” Fulk seized the bridle of Isoult’s horse, clapped in the spurs, and rode to meet Knollys’ great company. They opened and let him through. He drew rein before the forest of spears, and halted them with upraised arm. Knollys rode forward. “Sir, by the splendour of God, let our trumpets sound, and let us trample these wretches into the grass.” “No, by God; for they have trusted me. They shall go unharmed. Send Walworth to me. He shall speak to them.” The mob hung there, wavering, and making a discordant and querulous clamour. They were without leaders, and cowed and dumbfounded by Knollys’ spears. Walworth came riding up, and Fulk spoke with him. “Walworth, good friend, down on your knees. This shall be remembered.” He knighted him, smiling as he bent to touch him with his sword. “My hand is as good as another’s. Now, Sir Mayor, ride to those men yonder, demand my banners, say that I am merciful, that I have held back those who would have slaughtered them. Bid them depart—each man to his own home.” Walworth rode forward and spoke to them, and then Fulk and his fellows beheld a wonderful, strange sight. It was as though the bank of a pool had given way, and the brown wash of that multitude of heads and faces broke and flowed away on every side. They surrendered the banners and fled, swarming over the fields in ragged masses, some flying towards the city, others into the open country. This revolt was repulsed, broken, scattered. Fulk sat on his horse and watched them, and a strange light came into his eyes. He heard Knollys speaking. “Now are they like sheep that but an hour ago were very wolves. And one man has conquered them.” Fulk turned to him.