Richard briefly narrated his life with Gourdon, and his capture by the Prince, adding, “My mother was willing I should remain with him; she bade me do anything rather than join Simon and Guy; and verily, brother, save that the Prince is less free of speech, his whole life seems moulded upon our blessed father’s—” “Speak not of them in the same breath,” cried Henry hastily. “And wherefore—if such be his honour to him whom he slew and mutilated—art thou to disown thy name, and stand before him like some chance foundling?” “That was the King’s doing,” said Richard. “The Prince was averse to it, but King Henry, though he wept over me and called me his dear nephew, made it his special desire that he might not hear the name of Montfort; and the Prince, though overruling him in all that pertains to matters of state, is most dutiful in all lesser matters. I hoped at least to be called Fitz Simon, but some mumble of the King turned it into Fowen, and so it has continued. I believe no one at court is really ignorant of my lineage; but among the people, Montfort is still a trumpet-call, and the King fears to hear it.” “Well he may!” laughed Henry. “Rememberest thou, Richard, the sorry figure our good uncle cut, when we armed him so courteously, and put him on his horse to meet the rebels at Evesham—how he durst not hang back, and loved still less to go onward, and kept calling me his loving nephew all the time?” “Ah! Henry—but didst thou not hear my father mutter, when he saw the crowned helm under the standard, that it was ill done, and no good could come of seething the kid in the mother’s milk? And verily, had not the Prince been carrying his father from the field, I trow the Mortimers had not refused us quarter, nor had their cruel will of us.” “Oh ho! thou art come to have opinions of thine own!” laughed Henry, with the scoff of a senior unable to brook that his younger brother should think for himself. Yet this tone was so familiar to Richard’s ears, that it absolutely encouraged him to a nearer step to intimacy. He said, “But how scapedst thou, Henry? I could have sworn that I saw thee fall, skull and helmet cleft, a dead man!” Instead of answering, Henry put his hand under the chin of his child, who was leaning against him, and holding up her face to his brother, said, “Thou canst see this child’s face? Tell me what like she is.” “Like little Eleanor, like Amaury. The home-look of her eyes won my heart at once. Even the Princess remarked their resemblance to mine. Think of Eleanor and thy mind’s eye will see her.” “No other likeness?” said the blind man wistfully; “but no—thou wast at Hereford when she was at Odiham.” “Who?” He grasped Richard’s hand, and under his breath uttered the name “Isabel.” “Isabel Mortimer!” exclaimed Richard, who had been, of course, aware of his brother’s betrothal, when the two families of Montfort and Mortimer had been on friendly terms; “we heard she had taken the veil!”