“Yes, come hither,” said Edward, “my jailer at Hereford—the rebel who drew his maiden sword against his King and uncle—the outlaw who would try whether Leicester fits as well as Huntingdon with a bandit life! What hast thou to say for thyself, Richard de Montfort?” “That my fate, be it what it may, must not stand in the way of Adam’s pardon!” said Richard, standing still, without response to the Princess’s invitation. “My Lord, you have spoken much of his noble devotion to me for my father’s sake; but you know not the half of what he has done and dared for me. Oh! plead for him, Lady!” “Plead for him!” said Eleanor: “that will I do with all my heart; and well do I know that the good old King will weep with gratitude to him for having preserved the life of his young nephew. Yes, Richard, oft have we grieved for thee, my husband’s kind young companion in his captivity, and mourned that no tidings could be gained of thee!” It was not Richard who replied to this winning address. He stood flushed, irresolute, with eyes resolutely cast down, as if to avoid seeing the Princess’s sweet face. Adam, however, spoke: “Then, Lady, I am indeed beholden to you; provided that the boy is safe.” “He is safe,” said Prince Edward. “His age is protection sufficient.—My young cousin, thou art no outlaw: thine uncle will welcome thee gladly; and a career is open to thee where thou mayst redeem the honour of thy name.” The colour came with deeper crimson to the boy’s cheek, as he answered in a choked voice, “My father’s name needs no redemption!” Simultaneously a pleading interjection from the Princess, and a warning growl from De Gourdon, admonished Richard that he was on perilous ground; but the Prince responded in a tone of deep feeling, “Well said, Richard: the term does not befit that worthy name. I should have said that I would fain help thee to maintain its honour. My page once, wilt thou be so again? and one day my knight—my trusty baron?” “How can I?” said Richard, still in the same undertone, subdued but determined: “it was you who slew him and my brothers!” “Nay, nay!” exclaimed the Princess: “the poor boy thinks all his kindred are slain!” “And they are not!” cried Richard, raising his face with sudden animation. “They are safe?” “Thy brother Henry died with—with the Earl,” said Eleanor; “but all the rest are safe, and in France.” “And my mother and sister?” asked Richard. “They are likewise abroad,” said the Prince. “And, Richard, thou art free to join them if thou wilt. But listen first to me. We tarry yet two days at this forest lodge: remain with us for that space—thy name and rank unknown if thou wilt—and if thou shalt still look on me as guilty of thy father’s death, and not as a loving kinsman, who honoured him deeply, I will send thee safely to the coast, with letters to my uncle, the King of France.” Richard raised his head with a searching glance, to see whether this were invitation or command.