The feather’d songster, chanticleer,

Had wound his bugle-horn,

And told the early villager

The coming of the morn.

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks

Of light eclipse the grey,

And heard the raven’s croaking throat

Proclaim the fated day.

“Thou’rt right,” he said, “for, by the God

That sits enthron’d on high,

Charles Baldwin, and his fellows twain,

This day shall surely die.”

CHATTERTON.

On the evening on which Sir Kenneth assumed his post, Richard, after the stormy event which disturbed its tranquillity, had retired to rest in the plenitude of confidence inspired by his unbounded courage and the superiority which he had displayed in carrying the point he aimed at in presence of the whole Christian host and its leaders, many of whom, he was aware, regarded in their secret souls the disgrace of the Austrian Duke as a triumph over themselves; so that his pride felt gratified, that in prostrating one enemy he had mortified a hundred.

Another monarch would have doubled his guards on the evening after such a scene, and kept at least a part of his troops under arms. But Coeur de Lion dismissed, upon the occasion, even his ordinary watch, and assigned to his soldiers a donative of wine to celebrate his recovery, and to drink to the Banner of Saint George; and his quarter of the camp would have assumed a character totally devoid of vigilance and military preparation, but that Sir Thomas de Vaux, the Earl of Salisbury, and other nobles, took precautions to preserve order and discipline among the revellers.

The physician attended the King from his retiring to bed till midnight was past, and twice administered medicine to him during that period, always previously observing the quarter of heaven occupied by the full moon, whose influences he declared to be most sovereign, or most baleful, to the effect of his drugs. It was three hours after midnight ere El Hakim withdrew from the royal tent, to one which had been pitched for himself and his retinue. In his way thither he visited the tent of Sir Kenneth of the Leopard, in order to see the condition of his first patient in the Christian camp, old Strauchan, as the knight’s esquire was named. Inquiring there for Sir Kenneth himself, El Hakim learned on what duty he was employed, and probably this information led him to Saint George’s Mount, where he found him whom he sought in the disastrous circumstances alluded to in the last chapter.

It was about the hour of sunrise, when a slow, armed tread was heard approaching the King’s pavilion; and ere De Vaux, who slumbered beside his master’s bed as lightly as ever sleep sat upon the eyes of a watch-dog, had time to do more than arise and say, “Who comes?” the Knight of the Leopard entered the tent, with a deep and devoted gloom seated upon his manly features.

“Whence this bold intrusion, Sir Knight?” said De Vaux sternly, yet in a tone which respected his master’s slumbers.

“Hold! De Vaux,” said Richard, awaking on the instant; “Sir Kenneth cometh like a good soldier to render an account of his guard. To such the general’s tent is ever accessible.” Then rising from his slumbering posture, and leaning on his elbow, he fixed his large bright eye upon the warrior —“Speak, Sir Scot; thou comest to tell me of a vigilant, safe, and honourable watch, dost thou not? The rustling of the folds of the Banner of England were enough to guard it, even without the body of such a knight as men hold thee.”

“As men will hold me no more,” said Sir Kenneth. “My watch hath neither been vigilant, safe, nor honourable. The Banner of England has been carried off.”

“And thou alive to tell it!” said Richard, in a tone of derisive incredulity. “Away, it cannot be. There is not even a scratch on thy face. Why dost thou stand thus mute? Speak the truth — it is ill jesting with a king; yet I will forgive thee if thou hast lied.”

“Lied, Sir King!” returned the unfortunate knight, with fierce emphasis, and one glance of fire from his eye, bright and transient as the flash from the cold and stony flint. “But this also must be endured. I have spoken the truth.”

“By God and by Saint George!” said the King, bursting into fury, which, however, he instantly checked. “De Vaux, go view the spot. This fever has disturbed his brain. This cannot be. The man’s courage is proof. It CANNOT be! Go speedily — or send, if thou wilt not go.”

The King was interrupted by Sir Henry Neville, who came, breathless, to say that the banner was gone, and the knight who guarded it overpowered, and most probably murdered, as there was a pool of blood where the banner-spear lay shivered.

“But whom do I see here?” said Neville, his eyes suddenly resting upon Sir Kenneth.

“A traitor,” said the King, starting to his feet, and seizing the curtal-axe, which was ever near his bed —“a traitor! whom thou shalt see die a traitor’s death.” And he drew back the weapon as in act to strike.

Colourless, but firm as a marble statue, the Scot stood before him, with his bare head uncovered by any protection, his eyes cast down to the earth, his lips scarcely moving, yet muttering probably in prayer. Opposite to him, and within the due reach for a blow, stood King Richard, his large person wrapt in the folds of his camiscia, or ample gown of linen, except where the violence of his action had flung the covering from his right arm, shoulder, and a part of his breast, leaving to view a specimen of a frame which might have merited his Saxon predecessor’s epithet of Ironside. He stood for an instant, prompt to strike; then sinking the head of the weapon towards the ground, he exclaimed, “But there was blood, Neville — there was blood upon the place. Hark thee, Sir Scot — brave thou wert once, for I have seen thee fight. Say thou hast slain two of the thieves in defence of the Standard — say but one — say thou hast struck but a good blow in our behalf, and get thee out of the camp with thy life and thy infamy!”

“You have called me liar, my Lord King,” replied Kenneth firmly; “and therein, at least, you have done me wrong. Know that there was no blood shed in defence of the Standard save that of a poor hound, which, more faithful than his master, defended the charge which he deserted.”

“Now, by Saint George!” said Richard, again heaving up his arm. But De Vaux threw himself between the King and the object of his vengeance, and spoke with the blunt truth of his character, “My liege, this must not be — here, nor by your hand. It is enough of folly for one night and day to have entrusted your banner to a Scot. Said I not they were ever fair and false?” [Such were the terms in which the English used to speak of their poor northern neighbours, forgetting that their own encroachments upon the independence of Scotland obliged the weaker nation to defend themselves by policy as well as force. The disgrace must be divided between Edward I. and Edward III., who enforced their domination over a free country, and the Scots, who were compelled to take compulsory oaths, without any purpose of keeping them.]

“Thou didst, De Vaux; thou wast right, and I confess it,” said Richard. “I should have known him better — I should have remembered how the fox William deceived me touching this Crusade.”

“My lord,” said Sir Kenneth, “William of Scotland never deceived; but circumstances prevented his bringing his forces.”

“Peace, shameless!” said the King; “thou sulliest the name of a prince, even by speaking it. — And yet, De Vaux, it is strange,” he added, “to see the bearing of the man. Coward or traitor he must be, yet he abode the blow of Richard Plantagenet as our arm had been raised to lay knighthood on his shoulder. Had he shown the slightest sign of fear, had but a joint trembled or an eyelid quivered, I had shattered his head like a crystal goblet. But I cannot strike where there is neither fear nor resistance.”

There was a pause.

“My lord,” said Kenneth —

“Ha!” replied Richard, interrupting him, “hast thou found thy speech? Ask grace from Heaven, but none from me; for England is dishonoured through thy fault, and wert thou mine own and only brother, there is no pardon for thy fault.”

“I speak not to demand grace of mortal man,” said the Scot; “it is in your Grace’s pleasure to give or refuse me time for Christian shrift — if man denies it, may God grant me the absolution which I would otherwise ask of His church! But whether I die on the instant, or half an hour hence, I equally beseech your Grace for one moment’s opportunity to speak that to your royal person which highly concerns your fame as a Christian king.”

“Say on,” said the King, making no doubt that he was about to hear some confession concerning the loss of the Banner.

“What I have to speak,” said Sir Kenneth, “touches the royalty of England, and must be said to no ears but thine own.”

“Begone with yourselves, sirs,” said the King to Neville and De Vaux.

The first obeyed, but the latter would not stir from the King’s presence.

“If you said I was in the right,” replied De Vaux to his sovereign, “I will be treated as one should be who hath been found to be right — that is, I will have my own will. I leave you not with t............