resently. 'Yes, we will think of it, after our own fashion. God rest
you, Bertran, pray go refresh yourself.' So he dismissed him.

When he was alone he went on frowning, and between whiles tapped his
teeth with his beard-comb. He knew that Bertran had not come lying for
nothing to Pampluna; he must find out on whose account he was lying, and
upon what rock of truth (if any at all) he had built up his lies. Was it
because he hated the father, or because he hated the son? Or because he
served Prince John? Let that alone for a moment. This story of Alois: it
must be, he thought, either true or false, but was no invention of
Bertran's. Whichever it was, King Philip would make war upon King Henry,
not upon Richard; since, wanting timber, you cut at the trunk, not at
the branches. He believed Bertran so far, that the Count of Poictou was
in his country, and King Henry with a host in his. War between Philip
and the Count was a foolishness. Peace between the Count and King Henry
was another. Don Sancho believed (since he believed in God) that old
King Henry was at death's door; and he saw above all things that, if the
scandal was reasonably founded, there would be a bachelor prince
spoiling for wedlock. On all grounds, therefore, he decided to write
privily to his kinswoman, Queen Eleanor of England.

And so he did, to a very different tune from that imagined by Bertran,
the letter which follows:--

'Madame (Sister and Aunt),' he wrote, 'this day has brought tidings to
my private ear whereat in part I mourn with you, and rejoice in part, as
a wise physician who, hearing of some great lover in the article of
death, knows that he has both the wit and the remedy to work his cure.
Madame, with a hand upon my heart I may certify the flow of my blood for
the causes, serious and horrific, which have led to strife between your
exalted lord and most dear consort in Christ Jesus, my lord Henry the
pious King of England (whom God assoil) and his august neighbour of
France. But, Madame (Sister and Aunt), it is no less my comfort to
affirm that the estate of your noble son, the Count of Poictou, no less
moves my anguish. What, Madame! So fierce a youth and so strenuous,
widowed of his hopeful bed! The face of Paris with the fate of Menelaus!
The sweet accomplishments of King David (chief of trobadors) and the
ignominy of the husband of Bathsheba! You see that my eloquence burns me
up; and verily, Madame (Sister and Aunt), the hot coal of