ndition that it be done at Vezelay, when I am there with my army for
the East, and he with his army.'

The ambassadors demurred, talking among themselves: Richard sat on
immovable, his hands on his knees. Presently the Bishop of Beauvais,
better soldier than priest, stood out from his fellows and made this
remarkable speech:--

'Beau sire, our lord the august King takes it very ill that you have so
long delayed the marriage agreed upon solemnly between your Grace and
Madame Alois his sister. Therefore--' Milo (who was present) says that
he saw his master narrow his eyes so much that he seemed to have none at
all, but 'sockets and blank balls in them, like statues.' The Bishop of
Beauvais, apparently, did not observe it. 'Therefore,' he went on,
orotund, 'our lord the King desires that the marriage may be celebrated
before he sets out for Acre and the blessed work in those parts. Other
matters there are for settlement, such as the title of the most
illustrious Marquess of Montferrat to the holy throne, in which my
master is persuaded your Grace will conform to his desires. This and
other matters a many.'

The King got up. 'Too many matters, Bishop of Beauvais,' he said, 'for
my appetite, which is poor just now. There is no debate. Say this to
your master, I pay homage where it is due. If by his own act he prove
that it is not due, I will not be blamed. As to the Marquess, I will
never get a kingdom for him, and I marvel that King Philip can make no
better choice than of a man whose only title is rape, and can get no
better ally than the slanderer of his sister. And upon the subject of
that unhappy lady, I tell you this upon the Holy Gospels, that I will
marry King Philip himself before I will marry her; and so much he very
well knows. I am upon the point to depart in the fulfilment of my vows.
Let your master please himself. He is a bad sailor, he tells me. Am I to
think him a bad soldier? And if so, in such a cause, what sort of a
Christian, what sort of a king, am I to think him?'

The Bishop, his diplomacy at an end, grew very red. He had nothing to
say. Des Barres must needs put in his word.

'Bethink you, fair sire,' he says: 'the Marquess is of my kindred.'

'Oh, I do think, Des Barres,' the King answered him; 'and I am very
sorry for you. But I am not answerable for the trespasses of your
ancestry.'

Des Barres glared about him, as if he hoped to find a reply among the
joists.

'My lord,' he began again,