uld have been most patient. 'The truth, by
heaven!' he snapped. 'Ah, if I have not had enough of this truth!' And
so he left her shuddering. As he went down the long corridor he heard
shriek after shriek, and then the scurrying of many feet. Turning, he
saw carried lights, women running. The sounds were muffled, they had her
safe. Richard went to his house over the river, and slept for ten hours.

CHAPTER VII

OF THE CRACKLING OF THORNS UNDER POTS

Just as no two pots will boil alike, so with men; they seethe in trouble
with a difference. With one the grief is taken inly: this was Richard's
kind. The French King was feverish, the Marquess explosive, John of
England all eyes and alarms. So Richard's remedy for trouble was action,
Philip's counsel, the Marquess's a glut of hatred, and John's plotting.
The consequence is, that in the present vexed state of things Richard
threw off his discontent with his bedclothes, and at once took the lead
of the others, because it could be done at once. He declared open war
against the King his father, despatching heralds with the cartel the
same day; he gave King Philip to understand that the French power might
be for him or against him as seemed fitting, but that no power in heaven
or on earth would engage him to marry Dame Alois. King Philip, still
clinging to his friend, made a treaty of alliance with him against Henry
of England. That done, sealed and delivered, Richard sent for his
brother John. 'Brother,' he said, 'I have declared war against my
father, and Philip is to be of our party. In his name and my own I am to
tell you that one of two things you must do. You may stay in our lands
or leave them; but if you stay you must sign our treaty of alliance.'
Too definite for John, all this: he asked for time, and Richard gave him
till nightfall. At dusk he sent for him again. John chose to stay in
Paris. Then Richard thought he would go home to Poictou. The moment his
back was turned began various closetings of the magnates left behind,
with which I mean to fatigue the reader as little as possible.

One such chamber-business I must record. To Paris in the black February
weather came pelting the young Count Eustace, now by his brother's death
Count of Saint-Pol. Misfortune, they say, makes of one a man or a saint.
Of Eustace Saint-Pol it had made a man. After his homage done, this
youth still kneeling, his hands still between Philip's hands, looked
fixedly into his soverei