“No,” said Edward; “the boy lies sleeping in the Church of St. John, at Acre. I rose from my sickbed that I might lay him in his grave as a brother. Lights burn round him, and masses are said; and the brethren were left in charge to place his effigy on his tomb, in carven stone. One day I trust to see it. My brother Alexander of Scotland, Llewellyn of Wales, and I, have sworn to one another to bring all within these four seas into concord and good order; and then we may look for such a blessing on our united arms as may bear us onward to Jerusalem! Then come with us, Henry, and let us pray together at Richard’s grave.” “I may safely promise,” said Henry, smiling, “if this same Crusade is to be when peace and order are within the four seas. Moreover, thou wilt have ruined my trade by that time!” “Nay, Henry, cease fooling. See—if thou wilt not be thyself, I will find thee a lodge in any park of mine. None shall know who thou art; but thou shalt have free range, and—” “And weary of my life! No, no, cousin. I am in thy power now; and thou canst throw me into prison as the attainted Lord de Montfort. Do so if thou wilt; but I were fooling indeed to give up my free range, my power, my authority, to be a poor suspected, pitied, maimed pensioner on thy bounty. Park, quotha! with none to speak to from morn to night. I can have my will of any park of thine I please, whenever I choose!” Edward would have persisted, but Henry silenced him effectually, with a sarcastic hint that his favours had done little for Richard. Then the King prayed at least that he would consider his child; but to the proposal of taking her to the palace, Henry returned an indignant negative: “He had seen enough of the court ladies,” he said. A hot glow of anger lighted Edward’s cheek, for he loved his mother; but the blind beggar could not be the subject of his wrath, and he merely said, “Thou didst not know my wife!” “Ay, I will believe the court as perfect as thou thinkest to make the isle; but Bessee shall not bide there. She is the blind beggar’s child, and such shall she remain. Send me to a dungeon, as I said, and thou canst pen her in a convent, or make her a menial to thy princesses, as thou wilt; but while my life and my freedom are my own I keep my child.” “I could find it in my heart to arrest thee,” said Edward, “when I look at that beautiful child, and think to what thou wouldst bring her.” “She is fair then,” said the beggar eagerly. “Fair! She is the loveliest child mine eyes have looked on: though some of mine own have been very lovely. But she hath the very features of our royal line—though with eyes deep and dark, like thy father’s, or my Richard’s—and a dark glow of sunny health on her fair skin. She bears her, too, right royally. Henry, thou canst not wreck the fate of a child like that.”