Leonillo, however, who seemed to have an unfailing instinct for a Montfort, was willingly accepting the eager and delighted attentions of the little girl; though he preferred those of her father, and cowered down beneath his hand, with depressed ears and gently waving tail, as though there were something in the touch and voice that conferred what was as near bliss as the faithful creature could enjoy without his deity and master. Meantime, the Grand Prior discreetly removed his joint-stool out of hearing of the two cousins, and called the little maid to rehearse to him the Credo and Ave, with their English equivalents—a task that pretty Bessee highly disapproved after the fortnight’s dissipation, and would hardly have performed for one less beloved of children than Father Robert. The good Grand Prior knew that the King would have much to say that would beseem no ear save his kinsman’s; and in effect Edward told what none besides would ever hear respecting the true author of the attempts on his own life. “Spiteful fox. Such Simon ever was!” was the beggar’s muttered comment. “Well that he knows not of my poor child! So, cousin, thou hast kept his counsel,” he added in a different tone. “I thank thee in the name of Montfort and Leicester. It was well and nobly done.” And Henry de Montfort held out his hand with the dignity of head of the family whose honour Edward had shielded. “It was for thy father’s sake and Richard’s,” said Edward, receiving the acknowledgment as it was meant. “Ah, well,” said Henry, relapsing into his usual half-scoffing tone; “in that boy our Montfort blood seems to have run clear of the taint it got from the she-fiend of Anjou.” “Thy share was from a mocking fiend!” returned the King. “Ay, and a fair portion it is!” said the beggar. “My jest and my song have borne me through more than my sword and spurs ever did—and have been more to me than English earldom or French county. Poor Richard!” he added with feeling; “I told him his was the bondage and mine the freedom!” “Alas! I fear that so it was,” said Edward. “My favour only embittered his foes. Had I known how it would end, I had never taken him to me; but my heart yearned to my uncle’s goodly son.” “Maybe it is well,” said Henry. “Had the boy grown up verily like my father, thou and he might have fallen out; or if not—why, you knights and nobles ride in miry bloody ways, and ’tis a wonder if even the best of you does not bring his harness home befouled and besmirched—not as shining bright as he took it out. Well, what didst thou with the poor lad? Cut him in fragments? You mince your best loved now as fine as if they were traitors.”