He laid her on the bed, worn frail by the strife she had endured; she
had no strength to open her eyes, but moved her lips to thank him for
his pains. At first she turned her head from side to side, seeking a
cool place on the pillow; later she fell into a heavy, drugged sleep. He
watched her till it was nearly light, brooding over her unconscious
face. No thoughts of a king were his, I think; but once more he lapped
them in that young girl's bosom, and let them sway, ebb and flow, with
it.

On the flow, great with her theme, he saw her inspired, standing with
her torch of flame to point his road. A splintry way leads to the Cross,
where even kings consecrate must tear their feet. If he knew himself, as
at such naked hours he must, he knew whither his heart was set. He was
to lead the armies of Christendom, because no other man could do it. Had
he any other pure and stern desire but that? None. If he could win back
the Sepulchre, new plant the Holy Cross, set a Christian king on the
throne below Golgotha, keep word with God Who had bowed to him from the
Rood, give the heathen sword for sword, and hold the armed world like a
spear in his hand, to shake as he shook--God of all power and might, was
this not worthy his heart?

His heart and Jehane's! The flowing bosom ebbed, and drained him of all
but pity. He saw her like a dead flower, wan, bruised, thrown away.
Robbery! He had stolen her by force. He clenched his two hands about his
knee and shook himself to and fro. Thief! Damned thief! Had he made her
amends? He groaned. Not yet. Should she not be crowned? She prayed that
she might not be. She meant that; all her soul came sobbing to her lips
as she prayed him. He could not deny her that prayer. If she would not
mount his throne, she should not--he was King. But that other bidding:
Touch me not, she said. He looked at her sleeping; her bosom filled and
lifted his hand. God have no mercy on him if he denied her that either.
'So take Thou, God, my heart's desire, if I give her not hers.' Then he
stooped and kissed her forehead; she opened her eyes and smiled feebly,
half awake.

He was not a man, I say it again, at the mercy of women's lure. Milo was
right; he was Tristram, not Galahad nor Lancelot; a man of cold
appetite, a man whose head was master, touched rarely, and then stirred
only to certain deeps. So far as he could love woman born he loved
Jehane, saw her exceedingly lovely, loved her proud remote spirit,