secure
his father's treasure, and then made preparations for his coronation as
Count of Anjou, and for Jehane's coronation.

When she got his word that she was to meet him at Angers by a certain
day there was no thought of disobedience; the pouting mouth meant no
mutiny. It meant sickening fear. In Angers they crown the Count of Anjou
with the red cap, and put upon his feet the red shoes. That would make
Richard the Red Count indeed, whose cap and bed the leper had bid her
beware. Beware she might, but how avoid? She knew Richard by this time
for master. A year ago she had subjugated him in the Dark Tower; but
since then he had handled her, moulded her, had but to nod and she
served his will. With what heart of lead she came, come she did to await
him in black Angers, steep and hardy little city of slate; and the
meeting of the two brought tears to many eyes. She fell at his feet,
clasped his knees, could not speak nor cease from looking up; and he,
tall and kingly, stoops, lifts her, holds her upon his breast, strokes
her face, kisses her eyes and sorrowful mouth. 'Child,' he says, 'art
thou glad of me?' asking, as lovers love best to do, the things they
know best already. 'O Richard! O Richard!' was all she could say, poor
fond wretch; however, we go not by the sense of a bride's language, but
by the passion that breaks it up. Every agony of self-reproach, of fear
of him, of mistrust, of lurking fate, lay in those sobbed words, 'O
Richard! O Richard!'

When he had her alone at night, and she had found her voice, she began
to woo him and softly to beguile him with a hand to his chin, judging it
a propitious time, while one of his held her head. All the arts of woman
were hers that night, but his were the new purposes of a man. He had had
a rude shock, was full of the sense of his sin; that grim old mocking
face, grey among the candle-flames, was plain across the bed-chamber
where they lay. To himself he made oath that he would sin no more. No,
no: a king, he would do kingly. To her, clasped close in his arms, he
gave kisses and sweet words. Alas, she wanted not the sugar of his
tongue; she would have had him bitter, though it cost her dear. Lying
there, lulled but not convinced, her sobs grew weaker. She cried herself
to sleep, and he kissed her sleeping.

In the cathedral church of his fathers he did on, by the hands of the
Archbishop, the red cap and girdle and shoes of Anjou; there he held up
the leopard shield