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“PHILIPPA.

“To my true lord.”

“H’m!” said the King; “and now give me the entire story.”

John Copeland obeyed. I must tell you that early in the narrative King Edward arose and, with a sob, strode toward a window. “Catherine!” he said. He remained motionless what time Master Copeland went on without any manifest emotion. When he had ended, King Edward said, “And where is Madame de Salisbury now?”

At this the Brabanter went mad. As a leopard springs he leaped upon the King, and grasping him by either shoulder, shook that monarch as one punishing a child.

“Now by the splendor of God–!” King Edward began, very terrible in his wrath. He saw that John Copeland held a dagger to his breast, and shrugged. “Well, my man, you perceive I am defenceless. Therefore make an end, you dog.”

“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 greatest monarch our 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 wherewith England was regained. Twenty years ago but for Madame Philippa you had died naked in some ditch.”

“Go on,” the King said presently.

“And 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 but quadrupled her 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 all Scotland as a gift, and in return demands nothing–God ha’ mercy on us!–save that you nightly chafe your feet with a bit of woollen. You hear of it–and ask, ‘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 will be hanged ere dawn,” the King replied, and yet by this one hand had screened his face. “Meanwhile spit out your venom.”

“I say to you, then,” John Copeland continued, “that to-day you are master of Europe. 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–“I say to you, go home to your too-tedious wife, the source of all your glory! sit at her feet! and let her teach you what love is!” He flung away the dagger. “There you have the truth. Now summon your attendants, my tres beau sire, and have me hanged.”

The King gave no movement. “You have been bold–” he said at last.

“But you have been far bolder, sire. For twenty years you have dared to flout that love which is God made manifest as His main heritage to His children.”