Thy japes are nought, thy tragics the mewing of
cats; but thy news, fellow, thy news is too rich matter for thy sewer
of a throat. Tragic? No, it is worse: it is comic, O heaven! Heed you
now--' In his bitter shame he began pantomiming with his fingers:--'Here
are two persons, father by the Grace of God, son by the grace of the
father. Saith father, "Son, thou art sprung from kings; take this woman
that is sprung from kings, for I have no further use for her." Anon
cometh a white rag thinly from the inner tent--mark her provenance. Son
kneeleth down. "Wilt thou have my son, cony?" saith father. "Yea, dear
heart," saith she. "'Tis my counterpart, mark you," saith father.
"Better than nothing at all," saith she. Benevolent father, supple-kneed
son, convenient lady. Here is agreement. And thus it ends.' Again he
laughed outright at the steel-blue face of the sky, then jumped in a
flash from his seat to the throat of Bertran. Bertran tumbled backwards
with a strangled cry, and Richard pegged him to the ground.

'Thou yapping cur, Bertran,' he grated, 'thou sick dog of my kennel, if
this snarl of thine goes true thou hast done a service to me and mine
thou knowest not of. There is little to do before I am the richest man
in Christendom. Why, dull rogue, thou hast set me free!' He looked up
exulting from his work at the man's throat to shout this word. 'But if
it is not true, Bertran'--he shook him like a rat--'if it is not true, I
return, O Bertran, and tear this false gullet out of its case, and with
thy speckled heart feed the crows of Perigord.' Bertran had foam on his
lips, but Richard showed him no mercy. 'As it is, Bertran,' he went on
with his teeth on edge, 'I am minded to finish thee. But that I need
something from thee I think I should do it. Tell me now whence came thy
news. Tell me, Bertran, or thou art in hell in a moment.'

He had to let him up to win from him after a time that his informant was
the Count of Saint-Pol. Little matter that this was untrue, the bringing
in of his name set wild alarums clanging in Richard's head. It was only
too likely to have been Saint-Pol's doing; there was obvious reason; but
by the same token Saint-Pol might be a liar. He saw that he must by all
means find Saint-Pol, and find him at once. He began to shout for
Gaston. 'To horse, to horse, Gaston!' The court rang with his voice; to
the clamour he made, which might betoken murder, arson, pillage, or the
sin against the Holy Ghos