ifference to Richard's
indifference. When the messenger, therefore, arrived from the Old Man of
Musse, the insolence of the message was most unfortunate. The Archduke,
angry as he was, could afford to be cool. He played on the Old Man the
very part which Richard had played on him--that is, treated him and his
letter as though they were not.

Then he broke with Richard altogether; and then came Gilles de Gurdun
with secret words and offers.

The Archduke drained his beer-horn, and with his big hand wrung his
beard dry. He winked hard at Gilles, whom he thought to be a hired
assassin of deplorable address sent, probably, by Count John.

'Are you angry enough to do what you propose?' he asked him. 'I am not,
let me tell you.'

'I have been trying to kill him for four years,' said Gilles.

'And are you man enough, my fellow?' Gilles cast down his eyes.

'I have not been man enough yet, since he still lives. I think I am
now.' Then there was a pause.

'What is your price?' asked Luitpold after this.

Gilles said, 'I have no price'; and the Archduke, 'You suit my humour
exactly.'

* * * * *

Richard, I say, had begun to sing from the day he was sure that the
Archduke had given him up. Physical relief may have had something to do
with that, but moral certainty had more. What made him fume or freeze
was doubt. There was very little room for doubt just now but that his
enemies would prove too many for Austria's scruples. His friends? He was
not aware that he had any friends. Des Barres, Gaston, Auvergne, Milo?
What did they amount to? His sister Joan, his mother, his brothers? Here
he shrugged, knowing his own race too well. He had never heard of the
Angevin who helped any Angevin but himself. Lastly, Jehane. He had lost
her by his own fault and her extreme nobility. Let her go, glorious
among women! He was alone. Odd creature, he began to sing.

Singing like a genius to the broad splash of sunlight on brickwork,
Gilles de Gurdun found him. Richard was sitting on a bench against the
wall, one knee clasped in his hands, his head thrown back, his throat
rippling with the tide of his music. He looked as fresh and gallant a
figure as ever in his life; his beard trimmed sharply, his strong hair
brushed back, his doublet green, his trunks of fine leather, his shoes
of yet finer. The song he was upon was _Li Chastel d' Amors_, which
runs--

Las portas son de parlar
Al eissir e al