o, opening his eyes
wide.

'Sire, it is because he pretends that his father, the old King, has done
him dishonour. Says the Count, Madame Alois might be my stepmother,
never my wife.'

'Deus!' said the King. 'Bertran, is this the truth?'

That was a question for which Bertran was fully prepared. He always had
it put, and always gave the same answer. 'As I am a Christian, sire,' he
said, 'the Gospel is no truer.'

To which King Sancho replied, 'I do most devoutly believe in the Holy
Gospel, whatever any Arabian may say to the contrary. But is it for
this, pray, that you propose to light candles of war in Navarre?'

'Ah,' said Bertran, with his hand scratching in his vest, 'I light no
candles, my lord; but I counsel you to light them.'

'Phew!' said King Sancho, and stuck his arms out; 'on whose account,
Bertran, on whose account?'

Bertran replied savagely, 'On account of Dame Alois slandered, of her
brother France deceived in his hope, of the English King strangely
accused, of his son John (a hopeful prince, Benjamin of a second
Israel), and of Queen Eleanor of England, of whose kindred your Grace
is.'

'Deus! Oy, Deus!' cried King Sancho, pale with amazement, 'and are all
these thrones in arms, lighting candles against Count Richard?'

'It is so indeed, sire,' says Bertran; and King Sancho frowned, with
this comment--'There seems little chivalry here, take it as you will.'
Next he inquired, where was the Count of Poictou?

Bertran was ready. 'He rages his lands, sire, like a leopard caged. Now
and again he raids the marches, harries France or Anjou, and
withdraws.'

'And the King his father, Bertran, where is he? Far off, I hope.'

'He,' said Bertran, 'is in Normandy with a host, seeking the head of his
son Richard on a charger.'

'The great man that he is!' cried Don Sancho. Bertran could not contain
himself.

'Great or not, he is to pay his debts! The old rascal stag is rotten
with fever.'

I suppose Don Sancho was not called Wise for nothing. At any rate he sat
for a while considering the man before him. Then he asked, where was
King Philip?

'Sire,' replied Bertran, 'he is in his city of Paris, comforting Dame
Alois, and assembling his estates for Count Richard's flank.'

'And Prince John?'

'Oh, sire, he has friends. He waits. Watch for him presently.'

King Sancho frowned his forehead into furrows, and allowed himself a
hair or two of his beard. 'We will think of it, Bertran,' he said
p