ne eye, perceived that
his enemy had gone. 'No matter,' said the spent hero to himself. 'I will
wait till he comes back, and have at him again.'

He waited an unconscionable time, a month in fact, during which he
delighted to watch the shy oncoming of a Northern spring, so different
from the sudden flooding of the South. He found the wood-sorrel, he
measured the crosiers of the brake, and saw the blue mist of the
hyacinth carpet the glades. All this charmed him quite, until he
learned, by hazard, that the Sieur de Gurdun was to be married to Dame
Jehane Saint-Pol on Palm Sunday in the church of Saint Sulpice of
Gisors. 'God ha' mercy!' he thought, with a stab at the heart; 'there is
merely time.' He rode South on the wind's wings.

CHAPTER VIII

HOW THEY HELD RICHARD OFF FROM HIS FATHER'S THROAT

Long before the pink flush on the almond announced the earth a bride, on
all Gaulish roads had been heard the tramp of armed men, the ring of
steel on steel. This new war splintered Gaul. Aquitaine held for
Richard, who, though he had quelled and afterwards governed that great
duchy with an iron whip, had made himself respected there. So the Count
of Provence sent him a company, the Count of Toulouse and Dauphin of
Auvergne each brought a company; from Perigord, from Bertram Count of
Roussillon, from Bearn, and (for reasons) from the wise King of Navarre,
came pikemen and slingers, and long-bowmen, and knights with their
esquires and banner-bearers. The Duke of Burgundy and Count of Champagne
came from the east to fill the battles of King Philip; in the west the
Countess of Brittany sent about the war-torch. All the extremes of Gaul
were in arms against the red old Angevin who sat at her heart, who was
now still snarling in England, and sending message after secret message
to his son John. That same John, alone in Paris, headed no spears,
partly because he had none of his own, partly because he dared not
declare himself openly. He had taken a side, driven by his vehement
brother; for the first time in his life he had put pen to parchment.
God knew (he thought) that was committal enough. So he stayed in Paris,
shifting his body about to get comfort as the winds veered. Nobody
inquired of him, least of all his brother Richard, who, beyond requiring
his signature, cared little what he did with his person. This was
characteristic of Richard. He would drive a man into a high place and
then forget him. Reminded of his neg