Twice had the beggar received a dole at Westminster at the obsequies of Edward’s little sons; yea, though he and all his brethren of the dish had all the winter before had alms given them to purchase their prayers for the health of the last. “Three—but three out of six,” answered Edward; “nor dare I reckon on the life of the frail babe that England hailed yesterday as my heir. I sometimes deem that the blight of broken covenants has fallen on my sons.” “They were none of your breaking,” said Henry. “Say’st thou so!” exclaimed Edward, looking up, with the animation of a man hearing an acquittal from a quarter whose sincerity he could thoroughly trust. But Henry made no courtly answer. “Pshaw! no living man that had to deal with or for your father could keep a covenant. You were but the spear-point of the broken reed, good cousin; and we pitied and excused you accordingly.” “Your father did,” said Edward hoarsely. He could brook pity from the great Simon better than from the blind beggar. “Ay, marry, that did he,” returned Henry, “as he closed his visor that last morn, after looking out on that wild Welsh border scum that my fair brother-in-law had marshalled against us. ‘By the arm of St. James,’ said he, ‘if Edward take not heed, that rascaille will deal with us in a way that will be worse for him than for us!’” “A true foreboding,” said the King. “Henry, do thou come and be with me. All are gone! Scarce a face that I left in England has welcomed me on my return. Come, thou, in what guise thou wilt—earl, counsellor, or bedesman—only be with me, and speak to me thy father’s words.” “Who—I, my Lord?” returned Henry. “I am no man to speak my father’s words! They flew high over my head, and were only caught by grave youths such as yourself. I, who was never trusted with so much as a convoy. No, no; all the counsel I shall ever give, is to the beggars, which coat-of-arms is like to rain clipped silver, and which honest round penny pieces! Poor Richard! he bore the best brain of us all, and might have served your purpose. Sit down, and tell me of the lad.—Bessee, little one, bring out the joint-stool for the holy Father.” And Henry de Montfort made way on the rude bench outside his hut, with all the ease and courtesy of the Earl of Leicester receiving his kinsman the King. But meantime, the dog, which had been straining in the leash, held by Edward throughout the conference, leapt forward, and vehemently solicited the beggar’s caresses. “Ah, Leonillo!” he said, recognizing him at once, “thou hast lost thy master! Poor dog! thou art the one truly loyal to thy master’s blood!” “It was Richard’s charge to take him to thee,” said Edward: “but if he be burdensome to thee, I would gladly cherish him, or would commit him to faithful Gourdon, with whom he might be happier. Since he lost his master the poor hound hath much pined away, and will take food from none but me, or little John of Dunster.”