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Sire Edward put aside the lute. “Thus ends the Song of Service,” he said, “which was made not by the King of England but by Edward Plantagenet–hot-blooded and desirous man!–in honor of the one woman who within more years than I care to think of has attempted to serve but Edward Plantagenet.”

“I do not comprehend,” she said. And, indeed, she dared not.

But now he held both tiny hands in his. “At best, your poet is an egotist. I must die presently. Meantime I crave largesse, madame! ay, a great largesse, so that in his unending sleep your poet may rehearse our present love.” And even in Rigon’s dim light he found her kindling eyes not niggardly.

So that more lately Sire Edward strode to the window and raised big hands toward the spear-points of the aloof stars. “Master of us all!” he cried; “O Father of us all! the Hammer of the Scots am I! the Scourge of France, the conqueror of Llewellyn and of Leicester, and the flail of the accursed race that slew Thine only Son! the King of England am I who have made of England an imperial nation and have given to Thy Englishmen new laws! And to-night I crave my hire. Never, O my Father, have I had of any person aught save reverence or hatred! never in my life has any person loved me! And I am old, my Father–I am old, and presently I die. As I have served Thee–as Jacob wrestled with Thee at the ford of Jabbok–at the place of Peniel–” Against the tremulous blue and silver of the forest she saw in terror how horribly the big man was shaken. “My hire! my hire!” he hoarsely said. “Forty long years, my Father! And now I will not let Thee go except Thou hear me.”

And presently he turned, stark and black in the rearward splendor of the moon. “As a prince hast thou power with God,” he calmly said, “and thou hast prevailed. For the King of kings was never obdurate, m’amye.

“Child! O brave, brave child!” he said to her a little later, “I was never afraid to die, and yet to-night I would that I might live a trifle longer than in common reason I may ever hope to live!” And their lips met.

Neither stirred when Philippe the Handsome came into the room. At his heels were seven lords, armed cap-a-pie, but the entrance of eight cockchafers had meant as much to these transfigured two.

The French King was an odd man, no more sane, perhaps, than might reasonably be expected of a Valois. Subtly smiling, he came forward through the twilight, with soft, long strides, and made no outcry at recognition of his sister. “Take the woman away; Victor,” he said, disinterestedly, to de Montespan. Afterward he sat down beside the table and remained silent for a while, intently regarding Sire Edward and the tiny woman who clung to Sire Edward’s arm; and always in the flickering gloom of the hut Philippe smiled as an artist might do who gazes on the perfected work and knows it to be adroit.

“You prefer to remain, my sister?” he presently said. “He bien! it happens that to-night I am in a mood for granting almost any favor. A little later and I will attend to you.” The fleet disorder of his visage had lapsed again into the meditative smile which was that of Lucifer watching a toasted soul. “And so it ends,” he said. “Conqueror of Scotland, Scourge of France! O unconquerable king! and will the worms of Ermenoueil, then, pause to-morrow to consider through what a glorious turmoil their dinner came to them?”

“You design murder, fair cousin?” Sire Edward said.

The French King shrugged. “I design that within this moment my lords shall slay you while I sit here and do not move a finger. Is it not good to be a king, my cousin, and to sit quite still, and to see your bitterest enemy hacked and slain–and all the while to sit quite still, quite unruffled, as a king should always be? Eh, eh! I never lived until to-night!”