on his head.

'What a rough pelt, Fulke,' he says, 'like thy father's. God send thee a
better inside to it, my boy. God make a man of thee.'

'He will never make me a great king, sire,' says Fulke.

'He can make thee better than that,' said his father.

'I think not,' answered Fulke. 'You are the greatest king in the whole
world, sire. The Old Man of Musse said it.'

'Kiss me, Fulke,' said Richard. The boy put his face up quickly and
kissed his father's lips. 'What a lover!' the King laughed; and Jehane
said, 'He always kisses on the lips.' Richard sighed, suddenly tired;
Fulke looked about, frightened at all the solemnity, and took his
mother's hand. She gave him over to Des Barres, who led him away.

The King signed to Jehane to bend down her head. So she did, and even
thus could barely hear him.

'I must die in peace if I can, sweet soul,' he muttered. They all saw
that the end was not far off. 'Tell me what will become of thee when I
am gone.' She stroked his cheek.

'I shall go back to my husband and children, dear one. I have left three
behind me, all sons.'

'Are they good to thee? Art thou happy?'

'I am at peace with myself, wife of a wise old man; I love my children,
and have the memory of thee, Richard. These will suffice me.'

'There is one more thing for thee to give me, my Jehane.' She smiled
pityingly.

'Why, what is left to give, Richard?' He said in her ear, 'Our boy
Fulke.'

'Ah,' said Jehane. The Queen was now watching her intently between her
hands.

'Jehane, Jehane,' said King Richard, sweating with the effort to be
heard, 'all our life together thou hast been giving and I spending, thou
miser that I might play the prodigal. For the last time I ask of thee:
deny me not. Wilt thou stay here with Fulke our son?'

Jehane could not speak; she shook her head, and showed him her eyes all
blind with tears. The tears came freely, from more eyes than hers.
Richard's head dropped back, and for a full minute they thought him
gone. But no. He opened his eyes again and moved his lips. They strained
to hear him. 'The sponge, the sponge,' he said: then, 'Bring me in
Saint-Pol.' The cold light began to steal in through the crannies of the
tent.

The young man was brought in by Des Barres, in chains. Jehane, now
behind Richard's head, lifted him up in her arms.

'Knock off those fetters,' says the King. Saint-Pol was free.

'Eustace,' says Richard, 'you and I have bandied hard words enough, an