rs Henry, already fretted by Katharine's scorn, presently
vaulted to a towering fury.

"Fair cousin," the King said, after a deal of vehement bickering, "we
wish you to know that we will have the daughter of your King, and that
we will drive both him and you out of this kingdom."

The Duke answered, not without spirit, "Sire, you are pleased to say
so; but before you have succeeded in ousting my lord and me from this
realm, I am of the opinion that you will be very heartily tired."

At this the King turned on his heel; over his shoulder he flung: "I am
tireless; also, I am agile as a fox in the pursuit of my desires. Say
that to your Princess." Then he went away in a rage.

It had seemed an approvable business to win love incognito, according
to the example of many ancient emperors, but in practice he had
tripped over an ugly outgrowth from the legendary custom. The girl
hated him, there was no doubt about it; and it was equally certain he
loved her. Particularly caustic was the reflection that a twitch of
his finger would get him Katharine as his wife, for before long the
Queen-Regent was again attempting secret negotiations to bring this
about. Yes, he could get the girl's body by a couple of pen-strokes,
and had he been older that might have contented him: as it was, what
he wanted was to rouse the look her eyes had borne in Chartres orchard
that tranquil morning, and this one could not readily secure by
fiddling with seals and parchments. You see his position: this
high-spirited young man now loved the Princess too utterly to take her
on lip-consent, and this marriage was now his one possible excuse for
ceasing from victorious warfare. So he blustered, and the fighting
recommenced; and he slew in a despairing rage, knowing that by every
movement of his arm he became to her so much the more detestable.

Then the Vicomte de Montbrison, as you have heard, betrayed France,
and King Henry began to strip the French realm of provinces as you
peel the layers from an onion. By the May of the year of grace 1420
France was, and knew herself to be, not beaten but demolished. Only a
fag-end of the French army lay entrenched at Troyes, where King
Charles and his court awaited Henry's decision as to the morrow's
action. If he chose to destroy them root and branch, he could; and
they knew such mercy as was in the man to be quite untarnished by
previous using. Sire Henry drew up a small force before the city and
made no overtur