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The sun had set, but it was not more than dusk. There were no shadows anywhere as Richard and his sheep went homeward, but on every side the colors of the world were more sombre. Twice his flock roused a covey of partridges which had settled for the night. The screech-owl had come out of his hole, and bats were already blundering about, and the air was more cool. There was as yet but one star in the green and cloudless heaven, and this was very large, like a beacon, and it appeared to him symbolical that he trudged away from it.

Next day the Welshmen came, and now the trap was ready for Henry of Lancaster.

It befell just two days later, about noon, that while Richard idly talked with Branwen a party of soldiers, some fifteen in number, rode down the river’s bank from the ford above. Their leader paused, then gave an order. The men drew rein. He cantered forward.

“God give you joy, fair sir,” said Richard, when the cavalier was at his elbow.

The new-comer raised his visor. “God give you eternal joy, my fair cousin,” he said, “and very soon. Now send away this woman before that happens which must happen.”

“You design murder?” Richard said.

“I design my own preservation,” King Henry answered, “for while you live my rule is insecure.”

“I am sorry,” Richard said, “because in part my blood is yours.”

Twice he sounded his horn, and everywhere from rustling underwoods arose the half-naked Welshmen. “Your men are one to ten. You are impotent. Now, now we balance our accounts!” cried Richard. “These persons here will first deal with your followers. Then will they conduct you to Glyndwyr, who has long desired to deal with you himself, in privacy, since that WhitMonday when you stabbed his son.”

The King began: “In mercy, sire–!” and Richard laughed a little.

“That virtue is not overabundant among us Plantagenets, as both we know. Nay, Fate and Time are merry jesters. See, now, their latest mockery! You the King of England ride to Sycharth to your death, and I the tender of sheep depart into London, without any hindrance, to reign henceforward over all these islands. To-morrow you are worm’s-meat; and to-morrow, as aforetime, I am King of England.”

Then Branwen gave one sharp, brief cry, and Richard forgot all things saving this girl, and strode to her. He had caught up either of her hard, lithe hands; against his lips he strained them close and very close.

“Branwen–!” he said. His eyes devoured her.

“Yes, King,” she answered. “O King of England! O fool that I had been to think you less!”

In a while Richard said: “Now I choose between a peasant wench and England. Now I choose, and, ah, how gladly! O Branwen, help me to be more than King of England!”

Low and very low he spoke, and long and very long he gazed at her and neither seemed to breathe. Of what she thought I cannot tell you; but in Richard there was no power of thought, only a great wonderment. Why, between this woman and aught else there was no choice for him, he knew upon a sudden, and could never be! He was very glad. He loved the tiniest content of the world.

Meanwhile, as from an immense distance, came to this Richard the dogged voice of Henry of Lancaster. “It is of common report in these islands that I have a better right to the throne than you. As much was told our grandfather, King Edward of happy memory, when he educated you and had you acknowledged heir to the crown, but his love was so strong for his son the Prince of Wales that nothing could alter his purpose. And indeed if you had followed even the example of the Black Prince you might still have been our King; but you have always acted so contrarily to his admirable precedents as to occasion the rumor to be generally believed throughout England that you were not, after all, his son–“