“We will find a way of securing her from Simon,” said the Prince. “But fear not, Richard, Henry’s secret shall be safe with me! I have kept his secrets before now,” he added, with a smile. “Only, when we are at home again—so it please the Saints to spare us—thou shalt strive to show him cause to trust my Lady with his child, if he doth not seek to breed her up to scrip and wallet. I see such is thy counsel in this scroll, and it is well.” “How could I say other?” said Richard, “and now, more than ever! I long to thank the gracious Princess this very evening.” “Thy wound?’ said the Prince. “My wound is naught, I scarce feel it.” “Then,” said the Prince, “unless the leech gainsay it, it would be as well to be at our pavilion this evening, that men may see thou art not in any disgrace. Rest then till supper-time.” And as he spoke he rose to depart, but Richard made a gesture of entreaty. “So please your Grace, grant me a few farther words. I sware, and truly, that I had heard nothing from my brothers when I was accused of writing that letter to them. But see here, what yester-morn was pinned to that tent-pole.” He gave Edward the scroll, at which the Prince looked half smiling. “So! A dagger in store for me too, is there? Well, my cousins have a goodly thirst for vengeance! Hast thou any suspicion how this billet came here?” “Ay, my Lord; and for that cause I would warn you against two of the archers, one of whom was in Simon’s troop, and went with the late prince to Viterbo. I gave them no promise of silence.” “You spoke with them?” “With one, who was charged to let me through the outposts to a spot where means were provided for bringing me to Guy.” “And thou,” said Edward, smiling, “didst choose to bide the buffet?” “Sir,” said Richard, “I did indeed long after my brethren when Guy had been so near me in Africa; but now, I would far rather die than cast in my lot with them.” “Thou art wise,” said Edward; “not merely right, but wise. I have sent Gloucester to my uncle of Sicily with such messages that he will scarce dare to leave them scatheless! Then, at supper-time we meet again—in thine own name, Richard, and as my kinsman and esquire. Thou shalt bear thine own name and arms. I will cause a mourning suit to be sent to thee—thou art equally of kin with myself to poor Henry—and shalt mourn him with Edmund and me at the requiem to-morrow. So will it best be manifest to the camp, that we exempt thee from all blame.” Again he was departing, when Richard added—“The archers, my Lord—were it not good to dismiss them?” “Tush,” said Edward; “tell me not their names. So soon as the wind veers, they will be beyond Guy’s reach; and if I were to stand on my guard against every man who loved thy father better than mine, what good would my life do me? The poor knaves will be true enough when they see a Saracen before them!”