“None,” returned Hal; “though the King and his suite _did_ let loose five hundred chargers in the crowd at their dismounting, to trample down helpless folk, and be caught by rogues. Largesse they called it! Fair and convenient largesse—easily providing for those that received it!” “No harm was done,” briefly but sharply exclaimed the strange knight; and the blind man, who had, as little Bessee at least perceived, been turning his acute ear in that direction all the time he had been speaking, now let his features light up with sudden perception. But Sir Robert Darcy, thinking that he only now became aware of the stranger’s presence, said, “A knight is here from the East, who brings thee tidings, my son.” Sir Robert would have said more, but the beggar standing up, cut him short, by saying, “So, cousin, you have yet to learn the vanity of disguises and feignings towards a blind man.” “Nay, fair cousin,” was the answer, “my feigning was not towards you; but I doubted me whether you would have the world see me visit you in my proper character. Will not you give me a hand, Henry?” “First say to me,” said Henry, embracing with his maimed arm his staff, planted in front of him defiantly, and still holding tight his little daughter in his hand, “what brings you here to break into the peace of the poor remnant of a man you have left?” “I come,” said Edward patiently, “to fulfil my last—my parting promise, to one who loved us both—and gave his life for me.” “Loved you, ay! and well enough to betray me to you!” said Henry bitterly. “No, Henry de Montfort, ten thousand times no!” said Edward. “I would maintain in the lists the honour and loyalty of my Richard towards you and me and all others. His faithfulness to you brought him into peril of death and disgrace in the wretched matter of poor Henry of Almayne; and he would have met both rather than have broken his faith.” “Then,” said Henry, still with the same mocking tone, “how was it that my worthless existence became known to his Grace?” “I knew of your having vanished from Evesham Abbey,” returned Edward: “and thus knowing, I understood a letter, the writing of which had brought suspicion on Richard, and which was brought back to me when we were seeking into—” “Into the deed of Simon and Guy,” said Henry. “Poor Henry! It was a foul crime; and Father Robert can bear me witness that I did penance for it, when that kindly heart of his was laid in St. Peter’s Abbey.” “Then, Henry, thou own’st thy kinship to us still,” said Edward earnestly. “Give me thine hand, man, and let me embrace my lovely little kinswoman—a queen in her trappings. Ah, Henry! Heaven hath dealt lovingly with thee in sparing thee thy child!” “You have children left!” said Henry quickly, and not withholding a hand—which, be it remarked, was as delicately shaped and well kept as that which took it.