e saw that John Copeland held a dagger to his breast, and
he shrugged. "Well, my man, you perceive I am defenceless."

"First you will hear me out," John Copeland said.

"It would appear," the King retorted, "that I have little choice."

At this time John Copeland began: "Sire, you are the mightiest monarch
your race has known. England is yours, France is yours, conquered
Scotland lies prostrate at your feet. To-day there is no other man in
all the world who possesses a tithe of your glory; yet twenty years
ago Madame Philippa first beheld you and loved you, an outcast, an
exiled, empty-pocketed prince. Twenty years ago the love of Madame
Philippa, great Count William's daughter, got for you the armament
with which England was regained. Twenty years ago but for Madame
Philippa you had died naked in some ditch."

"Go on," the King said presently.

"Afterward you took a fancy to reign in France. You learned then that
we Brabanters are a frugal people: Madame Philippa was wealthy when
she married you, and twenty years had quadrupled her private fortune.
She gave you every penny of it that you might fit out this expedition;
now her very crown is in pawn at Ghent. In fine, the love of Madame
Philippa gave you France as lightly as one might bestow a toy upon a
child who whined for it."

The King fiercely said, "Go on."

"Eh, sire, I intend to. You left England undefended that you might
posture a little in the eyes of Europe. And meanwhile a woman
preserves England, a woman gives you Scotland as a gift, and in return
asks nothing--God have mercy on us!--save that you nightly chafe your
feet with a bit of woollen. You hear of it--and inquire, '_Where is
Madame de Salisbury?_' Here beyond doubt is the cock of Aesop's
fable," snarled John Copeland, "who unearthed a gem and grumbled that
his diamond was not a grain of corn."

"You shall be hanged at dawn," the King replied. "Meanwhile spit out
your venom."

"I say to you, then," John Copeland continued, "that to-day you are
master of Europe. I say to you that, but for this woman whom for
twenty years you have neglected, you would to-day be mouldering in some
pauper's grave. Eh, without question, you most magnanimously loved
that shrew of Salisbury! because you fancied the color of her eyes,
Sire Edward, and admired the angle between her nose and her forehead.
Minstrels unborn will sing of this great love of yours. Meantime I say
to you"--now the man's rage was monstrous