f me. Now let me go, that the
work may begin." After which, very devoutly kneeling, he signed to the
Archbishop of Tours, who sat in the sedilia of the sanctuary, to affix
the Cross to his shoulder. Which was done, and afterwards to most of the
company then present--to King Philip, to the Duke of Burgundy, to Henry
Count of Champagne, Bertram Count of Roussillon, and Raymond Count of
Toulouse; to many bishops; also to James d'Avesnes, William des Barres,
and to Eustace Count of Saint-Pol, the brother of Countess Jehane. But
Count John took no Cross, nor did Geoffrey the bastard of Anjou.
Afterwards, I believe, these two worked the French King into a fury
because Richard should have taken upon him the chief place in this
miraculous adventure. The Duke of Burgundy was not at all pleased
either. But everybody else knew that it was to King Richard the Holy
Rood had pointed; and he knew it himself, and events proved it so.

'But that night after supper he and King Philip kissed each other, and
swore brotherhood on their sword-hilts before all the peers. I am not
one to deny generous moments to that politic prince; this I consider to
have been one, evoked certainly by the nobility of King Richard. That
appointed champion's exaltation still burned in him; he was fiercely
excited, his eyes were bright with fever of fire. "Hey, Philip," he
laughed, "now you and I must cross the sea! And you a bad sailor,
Philip!"

'"'Tis so, indeed, Richard," says King Philip, looking rather foolish.
King Richard clapped him on the shoulder. "A stout heart, my Philip," he
says, "is betokened by your high stomach. That shall stand us in a good
stead in Palestine." Then it was that King Philip kissed him, and him
King Richard again.

'He was in great heart that day, full to the neck with hope and
adventure. I would like to see the man or woman to have denied him
anything. At times like these he was (I do not seek to disguise it) a
frank lover, _Non omnia possumus omnes_; if any man think he must have
been Galahad the Bloodless Knight because he had been singled out by the
questing Rood, he knows little how high ventures foment rich blood.
Lancelot he never was, to love broadcast; but Tristram, rather, lover
of one woman. Hope, pride, knowledge of his force, ran tingling in him;
perhaps he saw her fairer than any woman could have been; perhaps he saw
her rosy through his sanguine eyes. He clipped her in his arms in full
hall that night in a way