“Ill tidings, I trow,” said the Earl, bitterly. “Ay, Richard de Montfort, you had best take heed to yourself, he was your best friend; and a sore lookout it is for us all. Between the old dotard his father and the poor babes his children, England is in woeful plight. Would that your father’s wits were among us still! There’s some curse on this fools’ errand of a Crusade, for here is the sixth prince it hath slain, and well if we lose not our Princess too. But what is all this uproar!” “The men-at-arms, my Lord,” said Richard, “fierce to visit the crime on the captives.” “A good riddance!” said Earl Gilbert; “the miscreants eat as much as ten score yeomen, and my knaves are weary with guarding them. If this matter brings all the pagans in Palestine on our hands, we shall have enough to do without looking after this nest of heathens.” “But would the Prince have it so?” “I fear me the Prince is like to have little will in the matter! No, no, I’m not the man to order a butchery, but if the honest fellows must needs shed blood for blood, I’m not going to meddle between them and the heathen wolves.” Assuredly nothing was to be done with the Red de Clare, and Richard pushed on, with throbbing dismayed heart, to the tent, dreading to behold the condition of him whom he best loved and honoured on earth. The tent was crowded, but Richard’s unusual height enabled him to see, over the heads of those nearest, that Edward was sitting on the edge of his couch, his wife and Dame Idonea endeavouring to check the flow of blood from his wound. The elbow of his other arm was on his knee, and his head on his hand, but the opening of the curtain let in the light; he looked up, and Richard saw how deathly white his face had become, and the streaks of blood from the scratch upon his brow. He greeted Richard, however, with the look of recognition to which his young squire had now become used—not exactly a smile, but a well-satisfied welcome; and though he spoke low and feebly to his brother who stood near him, Richard caught the words with a thrill of emotion. “Let him near me, Edmund. He hath a ready hand, and may aid thee, sweet wife. Thou art wearying thyself.” Then, as Richard approached, “Thou hast sped well! I looked not for thee so soon.” “Alack, my Lord!” said Richard, “I hurried on to warn you. Ah! would I had been in time!” “Thy little pupil, John, did all man could do,” said Edward, languidly smiling. “But what—hast aught in charge to say to me? Be brief, for I am strangely dizzy.” “My Lord,” said Richard, “the archers and men-at-arms are furiously wrath with the Saracens. They would wreak their vengeance on the prisoners, who at least are guiltless!” “The knaves!” exclaimed Edward promptly. “Why looks not Gloucester to this?” “My Lord, the Earl saith that he would not command the slaughter, but that he will not forbid it.”