“No, no,” grimly laughed Henry. “Dost think any favour would make it tolerable to be wept over and pitied by the King—pitied by _the King_,” he repeated in ineffable disgust; “or to be the show of the court, among all that knew me of old, when I _was_ a man? Hob the cobbler, and Martin the bagster, are better company than Pembroke and Gloucester, and I meet with more humours on Cheapside than I should at Winchester—more regard too. Why, they deem me threescore years old at least, and I am a very oracle of wisdom among them. Earl of Leicester, forsooth! he would be nobody compared with Blind Hal! And as to freedom—with child and staff the whole country and city are before me—no shouts to dull retainers, and jackanape pages to set my blind lordship on horseback, without his bridle hand, and lead him at their will anywhere but at his own. “All this I can understand for thyself,” said Richard; “but for thy child’s sake canst thou not be moved?” “My child, quotha? What, when her Uncle Simon is true grandson to King John?” Richard started. “I cannot believe what thou sayest of Simon,” he answered in displeasure. “One day thou wilt,” calmly answered Henry; “but I had rather not have it proved upon the heiress of Leicester and Montfort.” “Leicester is forfeit—Simon an outlawed man.” “If the humour for pardon is set in, Cousin Edward is no man to do things by halves. If he owned me at all, the lands would be mine again, and such a bait would be smelt out by Simon were he at the ends of the earth. Or if not, that poor child would be granted to any needy kinsman or grasping baron that Edward wanted to portion. My child shall be my own, and none other’s. Better a beggar’s brat than an earl’s heiress!” “She is a lovely little maiden. I know not how thou canst endure letting her grow up in poverty, an alien from her birth and rank.” “Poverty,” Henry laughed. “Little knowest thou of the jolly beggar’s business! I would fain wager thee, Richard, that pretty Bessee’s marriage-portion shall be a heavier bag of gold than the Lady Elizabeth de Montfort would gather by all the aids due to her father from his vassals—and won moreover without curses.” “But who would be the bridegroom?” “Her own choice, not the King’s,” answered Henry briefly. “And this is all,” said Richard, perceiving that according to the previous day’s agreement the cream-coloured elephant of a German horse was being led forth for his use, and Sir Robert preparing to accompany him. “I must leave thee in this strange condition?” “Ay, that must thou. Betray me, and thou shalt have the curse of the head of thine house. Had thy voice not become so strangely like my father’s, I had never made myself known to thee.” “I will see thee again.” “That will be as thou canst. I trow Edward hardly gives freedom enough to his pages for them to pay visits unknown,” replied Henry, with a strange sneering triumph in his own wild liberty.