rywhere from rustling underwoods
arose the half-naked Welshmen. Said Richard: "You should read history
more carefully, Cousin Henry. You might have profited, as I have done,
by considering the trick which our grandfather, old Edward Longshanks,
played on the French King at Mezelais. As matters stand, your men are
one to ten. You are impotent. Now, now we balance our accounts! These
persons here will first deal with your followers. Then they will
conduct you to Glyndwyr, who has long desired to deal with you
himself, in privacy, since that Whit-Monday when you murdered his
son."

The King began, "In mercy, sire--!" and Richard laughed a little,
saying:

"That virtue is not overabundant among us of Oriander's blood, as we
both know. No, cousin, Fate and Time are merry jesters. See, now,
their latest mockery! You the King of England ride to Sycharth to your
death, and I the tender of sheep depart into London, without any
hindrance, to reign henceforward over these islands. To-morrow you are
worm's-meat, Cousin Henry: to-morrow, as yesterday, I am King of
England."

Then Branwen gave one sharp, brief cry, and Richard forgot all things
saving this girl, and strode to her. He had caught up her hard, lithe
hands; against his lips he strained them close and very close.

"Branwen--!" he said. His eyes devoured her.

"Yes, King," she answered. "O King of England! O fool that I have been
to think you less!"

In a while Richard said: "Well, I at least am not fool enough to think
of making you a king's whore. So I must choose between a peasant wench
and England. Now I choose, and how gladly! Branwen, help me to be more
than King of England!"

Low and very low he spoke, and long and very long he gazed at her, and
neither seemed to breathe. Of what she thought I cannot tell you; but
in Richard there was no power of thought, only a great wonderment.
Why, between this woman's love and aught else there was no choice for
him, he knew upon a sudden. Perhaps he would thus worship her always,
he reflected: and then again, perhaps he would be tired of her before
long, just as all other persons seemed to abate in these infatuations:
meanwhile it was certain that he was very happy. No, he could not go
back to the throne and to the little French girl who was in law his
wife.

And, as if from an immense distance, came to Richard the dogged voice
of Henry of Lancaster. "It is of common report in these islands that I
have a better right