When beauty leads the lion in her toils,
Such are her charms, he dare not raise his mane,
Far less expand the terror of his fangs.
So great Alcides made his club a distaff,
And spun to please fair Omphale.
ANONYMOUS.
Richard, the unsuspicious object of the dark treachery detailed in the
closing part of the last chapter, having effected, for the present at
least, the triumphant union of the Crusading princes in a resolution
to prosecute the war with vigour, had it next at heart to establish
tranquillity in his own family; and, now that he could judge more
temperately, to inquire distinctly into the circumstances leading to
the loss of his banner, and the nature and the extent of the connection
betwixt his kinswoman Edith and the banished adventurer from Scotland.
Accordingly, the Queen and her household were startled with a visit
from Sir Thomas de Vaux, requesting the present attendance of the Lady
Calista of Montfaucon, the Queen's principal bower-woman, upon King
Richard.
“What am I to say, madam?” said the trembling attendant to the Queen,
“He will slay us all.”
“Nay, fear not, madam,” said De Vaux. “His Majesty hath spared the life
of the Scottish knight, who was the chief offender, and bestowed him
upon the Moorish physician. He will not be severe upon a lady, though
faulty.”
“Devise some cunning tale, wench,” said Berengaria. “My husband hath too
little time to make inquiry into the truth.”
“Tell the tale as it really happened,” said Edith, “lest I tell it for
thee.”
“With humble permission of her Majesty,” said De Vaux, “I would say Lady
Edith adviseth well; for although King Richard is pleased to believe
what it pleases your Grace to tell him, yet I doubt his having the same
deference for the Lady Calista, and in this especial matter.”
“The Lord of Gilsland is right,” said the Lady Calista, much agitated at
the thoughts of the investigation which was to take place; “and besides,
if I had presence of mind enough to forge a plausible story, beshrew me
if I think I should have the courage to tell it.”
In this candid humour, the Lady Calista was conducted by De Vaux to the
King, and made, as she had proposed, a full confession of the decoy by
which the unfortunate Knight of the Leopard had been induced to desert
his post; exculpating the Lady Edith, who, she was aware, would not
fail to exculpate herself, and laying the full burden on the Queen, her
mistress, whose share of the frolic, she well knew, would appear the
most venial in the eyes of Coeur de Lion. In truth, Richard was a fond,
almost a uxorious husband. The first burst of his wrath had long since
passed away, and he was not disposed severely to censure what could
not now be amended. The wily Lady Calista, accustomed from her earliest
childhood to fathom the intrigues of a court, and watch the indications
of a sovereign's will, hastened back to the Queen with the speed of
a lapwing, charged with the King's commands that she should expect
a speedy visit from him; to which the bower-lady added a commentary
founded on her own observation, tending to show that Richard meant just
to preserve so much severity as might bring his royal consort to repent
of her frolic, and then to extend to her and all concerned his gracious
pardon.
“Sits the wind in that corner, wench?” said the Queen, much relieved by
this intelligence. “Believe me that, great commander as he is, Richard
will find it hard to circumvent us in this matter, and that, as the
Pyrenean shepherds are wont to say in my native Navarre, Many a one
comes for wool, and goes back shorn.”
Having possessed herself of all the information which Calista could
communicate, the royal Berengaria arrayed herself in her most becoming
dress, and awaited with confidence the arrival of the heroic Richard.
He arrived, and found himself in the situation of a prince entering an
offending province, in the confidence that his business will only be to
inflict rebuke, and receive submission, when he unexpectedly finds it in
a state of complete defiance and insurrection. Berengaria well knew
the power of her charms and the extent of Richard's affection, and
felt assured that she could make her own terms good, now that the first
tremendous explosion of his anger had expended itself without mischief.
Far from listening to the King's intended rebuke, as what the levity
of her conduct had justly deserved, she extenuated, nay, defended as a
harmless frolic, that which she was accused of. She denied, indeed,
with many a pretty form of negation, that she had directed Nectabanus
absolutely to entice the knight farther than the brink of the Mount on
which he kept watch--and, indeed, this was so far true, that she had not
designed Sir Kenneth to be introduced into her tent--and then, eloquent
in urging her own defence, the Queen was far more so in pressing upon
Richard the charge of unkindness, in refusing her so poor a boon as the
life of an unfortunate knight, who, by her thoughtless prank, had been
brought within the danger of martial law. She wept and sobbed while she
enlarged on her husband's obduracy on this score, as a rigour which had
threatened to make her unhappy for life, whenever she should reflect
that she had given, unthinkingly, the remote cause for such a tragedy.
The vision of the slaughtered victim would have haunted her dreams--nay,
for aught she knew, since such things often happened, his actual spectre
might have stood by her waking couch. To all this misery of the mind was
she exposed by the severity of one who, while he pretended to dote upon
her slightest glance, would not forego one act of poor revenge, though
the issue was to render her miserable.
All this flow of female eloquence was accompanied with the usual
arguments of tears and sighs, and uttered with such tone and action as
seemed to show that the Queen's resentment arose neither from pride nor
sullenness, but from feelings hurt at finding her consequence with her
husband less than she had expected to possess.
The good King Richard was considerably embarrassed. He tried in vain
to reason with one whose very jealousy of his affection rendered her
incapable of listening to argument, nor could he bring himself to use
the restraint of lawful authority to a creature so beautiful in the
midst of her unreasonable displeasure. He was therefore reduced to the
defensive, endeavoured gently to chide her suspicions and soothe her
displeasure, and recalled to her mind that she need not look back upon
the past with recollections either of remorse or supernatural fear,
since Sir Kenneth was alive and well, and had been bestowed by him upon
the great Arabian physician, who, doubtless, of all men, knew best how
to keep him living. But this seemed the unkindest cut of all, and
the Queen's sorrow was renewed at the idea of a Saracen--a
mediciner--obtaining a boon for which, with bare head and on bended
knee, she had petitioned her husband in vain. At this new charge
Richard's patience began rather to give way, and he said, in a serious
tone of voice, “Berengaria, the physician saved my life. If it is of
value in your eyes, you will not grudge him a higher recompense than the
only one I could prevail on him to accept.”
The Queen was satisfied she had urged her coquettish displeasure to the
verge of safety.
“My Richard,” she said, “why brought you not that sage to me, that
England's Queen might show how she esteemed him who could save from
extinction the lamp of chivalry, the glory of England, and the light of
poor Berengaria's life and hope?”
In a word, the matrimonial dispute was ended; but, that some penalty
might be paid to justice, both King and Queen accorded in laying the
whole blame on the agent Nectabanus, who (the Queen being by this time
well weary of the poor dwarf's humour) was, with his royal consort
Guenevra, sentenced to be banished from the Court; and the unlucky dwarf
only escaped a supplementary whipping, from the Queen's assurances that
he had already sustained personal chastisement. It was decreed further
that, as an envoy was shortly to be dispatched to Saladin, acquainting
him with the resolution of the Council to resume hostilities so soon as
the truce was ended, and as Richard proposed to send a valuable present
to the Soldan, in acknowledgment of the high benefit he had derived from
the services of El Hakim, the two unhappy creatures should be added to
it as curiosities, which, from their extremely grotesque appearance, and
the shattered state of their intellect, were gifts that might well pass
between sovereign and sovereign.
Richard had that day yet another female encounter to sustain; but
he advanced to it with comparative indifference, for Edith, though
beautiful and highly esteemed by her royal relative--nay, although she
had from his unjust suspicions actually sustained the injury of which
Berengaria only affected to complain--still was neither Richard's wife
nor mistress, and he feared her reproaches less, although founded in
reason, than those of the Queen, though unjust and fantastical. Having
requested to speak with her apart, he was ushered into her apartment,
adjoining that of the Queen, whose two female Coptish slaves remained on
their knees in the most remote corner during the interview. A thin black
veil extended its ample folds over the tall and graceful form of the
high-born maiden, and she wore not upon her person any female ornament
of what kind soever. She arose and made a low reverence when Richard
entered, resumed her seat at his command, and, when he sat down beside
her, waited, without uttering a syllable, until he should communicate
his pleasure.
Richard, whose custom it was to be familiar with Edith, as their
relationship authorized, felt this reception chilling, and opened the
conversation with some embarrassment.
“Our fair cousin,” he at length said, “is angry with us; and we own that
strong circumstances have induced us, without cause, to suspect her
of conduct alien to what we have ever known in her course of life. But
while we walk in this misty valley of humanity, men will mistake shadows
for substances. Can my fair cousin not forgive her somewhat vehement
kinsman Richard?”
“Who can refuse forgiveness to RICHARD,” answered Edith, “provided
Richard can obtain pardon of the KING?”
“Come, my kinswoman,” replied Coeur de Lion, “this is all too solemn.
By Our Lady, such a melancholy countenance, and this ample sable veil,
might make men think thou wert a new-made widow, or had lost a betrothed
lover, at least. Cheer up! Thou hast heard, doubtless, that there is no
real cause for woe; why, then, keep up the form of mourning?”
“For the departed honour of Plantagenet--for the glory which hath left
my father's house.”
Richard frowned. “Departed honour! glory which hath left our house!” he
repeated angrily. “But my cousin Edith is privileged. I have judged her
too hastily; she has therefore a right to deem of me too harshly. But
tell me at least in what I have faulted.”
“Plantagenet,” said Edith, “should have either pardoned an offence, or
punished it. It misbecomes him to assign free men, Christians, and
brave knights, to the fetters of the infidels. It becomes him not to
compromise and barter, or to grunt life under the forfeiture of liberty.
To have doomed the unfortunate to death might have been severity, but
had a show of justice; to condemn him to slavery and exile was barefaced
tyranny.”
“I see, my fair cousin,” said Richard, “you are of those pretty ones who
think an absent lover as bad as none, or as a dead one. Be patient; half
a score of light horsemen may yet follow and redeem the error, if thy
gallant have in keeping any secret which might render his death more
convenient than his banishment.”
“Peace with thy scurrile jests!” answered Edith, colouring deeply.
“Think, rather, that for the indulgence of thy mood thou hast lopped
from this great enterprise one goodly limb, deprived the Cross of one of
its most brave supporters, and placed a servant of the true God in the
hands of the heathen; hast given, too, to minds as suspicious as thou
hast shown thine own in this matter, some right to say that Richard
Coeur de Lion banished the bravest soldier in his camp lest his name in
battle might match his own.”
“I--I!” exclaimed Richard, now indeed greatly moved--“am I one to be
jealous of renown? I would he were here to profess such an equality! I
would waive my rank and my crown, and meet him, manlike, in the lists,
that it might appear whether Richard Plantagenet had room to fear or to
envy the prowess of mortal man. Come, Edith, thou think'st not as thou
sayest. Let not anger or grief for the absence of thy lover make thee
unjust to thy kinsman, who, notwithstanding all thy techiness, values
thy good report as high as that of any one living.”
“The absence of my lover?” said the Lady Edith, “But yes, he may be
well termed my lover, who hath paid so dear for the title. Unworthy as I
might be of such homage, I was to him like a light, leading him forward
in the noble path of chivalry; but that I forgot my rank, or that he
presumed beyond his, is false, were a king to speak it.”
“My fair cousin,” said Richard, “do not put words in my mouth which I
have not spoken. I said not you had graced this man beyond the favour
which a good knight may earn, even from a princess, whatever be his
native condition. But, by Our Lady, I know something of this
love-gear. It begins with mute respect and distant reverence; but when
opportunities occur, familiarity increases, and so--But it skills not
talking with one who thinks herself wiser than all the world.”
“My kinsman's counsels I willingly listen to, when they are such,” said
Edith, “as convey no insult to my rank and character.”
“Kings, my fair cousin, do not counsel, but rather command,” said
Richard.
“Soldans do indeed command,” said Edith, “but it is because they have
slaves to govern.”
“Come, you might learn to lay aside this scorn of Soldanrie, when you
hold so high of a Scot,” said the King. “I hold Saladin to be truer to
his word than this William of Scotland, who must needs be called a
Lion, forsooth; he hath foully faulted towards me in failing to send the
auxiliary aid he promised. Let me tell thee, Edith, thou mayest live to
prefer a true Turk to a false Scot.”
“No--never!” answered Edith--“not should Richard himself embrace the
false religion, which he crossed the seas to expel from Palestine.”
“Thou wilt have the last word,” said Richard, “and thou shalt have it.
Even think of me what thou wilt, pretty Edith. I shall not forget that
we are near and dear cousins.”
So saying, he took his leave in fair fashion, but very little satisfied
with the result of his visit.
It was the fourth day after Sir Kenneth had been dismissed from the
camp, and King Richard sat in his pavilion, enjoying an evening breeze
from the west, which, with unusual coolness on her wings, seemed
breathed from merry England for the refreshment of her adventurous
Monarch, as he was gradually recovering the full strength which was
necessary to carry on his gigantic projects. There was no one with
him, De Vaux having been sent to Ascalon to bring up reinforcements and
supplies of military munition, and most of his other attendants being
occupied in different departments, all preparing for the re-opening
of hostilities, and for a grand preparatory review of the army of the
Crusaders, which was to take place the next day. The King sat listening
to the busy hum among the soldiery, the clatter from the forges, where
horseshoes were preparing, and from the tents of the armourers, who were
repairing harness. The voice of the soldiers, too, as they passed
and repassed, was loud and cheerful, carrying with its very tone an
assurance of high and excited courage, and an omen of approaching
victory. While Richard's ear drank in these sounds with delight, and
while he yielded himself to the visions of conquest and of glory which
they suggested, an equerry told him that a messenger from Saladin waited
without.
“Admit him instantly,” said the King, “and with due honour, Josceline.”
The English knight accordingly introduced a person, apparently of no
higher rank than a Nubian slave, whose appearance was nevertheless
highly interesting. He was of superb stature and nobly formed, and his
commanding features, although almost jet-black, showed nothing of negro
descent. He wore over his coal-black locks a milk-white turban, and over
his shoulders a short mantle of the same colour, open in front and at
the sleeves, under which appeared a doublet of dressed leopard's skin
reaching within a handbreadth of the knee. The rest of his muscular
limbs, both legs and arms, were bare, excepting that he had sandals
on his feet, and wore a collar and bracelets of silver. A straight
broadsword, with a handle of box-wood and a sheath covered with
snakeskin, was suspended from his waist. In his right hand he held a
short javelin, with a broad, bright steel head, of a span in length, and
in his left he led by a leash of twisted silk and gold a large and noble
staghound.
The messenger prostrated himself, at the same time partially uncovering
his shoulders, in sign of humiliation, and having touched the earth with
his forehead, arose so far as to rest on one knee, while he delivered
to the King a silken napkin, enclosing another of cloth of gold,
within which was a letter from Saladin in the original Arabic, with a
translation into Norman-English, which may be modernized thus:--
“Saladin, King of Kings, to Melech Ric, the Lion of England. Whereas, we
are informed by thy last message that thou hast chosen war rather than
peace, and our enmity rather than our friendship, we account thee as
one blinded in this matter, and trust shortly to convince thee of thine
error, by the help of our invincible forces of the thousand tribes, when
Mohammed, the Prophet of God, and Allah, the God of the Prophet, shall
judge the controversy betwixt us. In what remains, we make noble account
of thee, and of the gifts which thou hast sent us, and of the two
dwarfs, singular in their deformity as Ysop, and mirthful as the lute of
Isaack. And in requital of these tokens from the treasure-house of thy
bounty, behold we have sent thee a Nubian slave, named Zohauk, of whom
judge not by his complexion, according to the foolish ones of the earth,
in respect the dark-rinded fruit hath the most exquisite flavour.
Know that he is strong to execute the will of his master, as Rustan of
Zablestan; also he is wise to give counsel when thou shalt learn to hold
communication with him, for the Lord of Speech hath been stricken with
silence betwixt the ivory walls of his palace. We commend him to thy
care, hoping the hour may not be distant when he may render thee good
service. And herewith we bid thee farewell; trusting that our most
holy Prophet may yet call thee to a sight of the truth, failing which
illumination, our desire is for the speedy restoration of thy royal
health, that Allah may judge between thee and us in a plain field of
battle.”
And the missive was sanctioned by the signature and seal of the Soldan.
Richard surveyed the Nubian in silence as he stood before him, his looks
bent upon the ground, his arms folded on his bosom, with the appearance
of a black marble statue of the most exquisite workmanship, waiting
life from the touch of a Prometheus. The King of England, who, as it was
emphatically said of his successor Henry the Eighth, loved to look upon
A MAN, was well pleased with the thews, sinews, and symmetry of him whom
he now surveyed, and questioned him in the lingua franca, “Art thou a
pagan?”
The slave shook his head, and raising his finger to his brow, crossed
himself in token of his Christianity, then resumed his posture of
motionless humility.
“A Nubian Christian, doubtless,” said Richard, “and mutilated of the
organ of speech by these heathen dogs?”
The mute again slowly shook his head, in token of negative, pointed with
his forefinger to Heaven, and then laid it upon his own lips.
“I understand thee,” said Richard; “thou dost suffer under the
infliction of God, not by the cruelty of man. Canst thou clean an armour
and belt, and buckle it in time of need?”
The mute nodded, and stepping towards the coat of mail, which hung with
the shield and helmet of the chivalrous monarch upon the pillar of the
tent, he handled it with such nicety of address as sufficiently to show
that he fully understood the business of an armour-bearer.
“Thou art an apt, and wilt doubtless be a useful knave. Thou shalt wait
in my chamber, and on my person,” said the King, “to show how much I
value the gift of the royal Soldan. If thou hast no tongue, it follows
thou canst carry no tales, neither provoke me to be sudden by any unfit
reply.”
The Nubian again prostrated himself till his brow touched the earth,
then stood erect, at some paces distant, as waiting for his new master's
commands.
“Nay, thou shalt commence thy office presently,” said Richard, “for I
see a speck of rust darkening on that shield; and when I shake it in
the face of Saladin, it should be bright and unsullied as the Soldan's
honour and mine own.”
A horn was winded without, and presently Sir Henry Neville entered
with a packet of dispatches. “From England, my lord,” he said, as he
delivered it.
“From England--our own England!” repeated Richard, in a tone of
melancholy enthusiasm. “Alas! they little think how hard their Sovereign
has been beset by sickness and sorrow--faint friends and forward
enemies.” Then opening the dispatches, he said hastily, “Ha! this comes
from no peaceful land--they too have their feuds. Neville, begone; I
must peruse these tidings alone, and at leisure.”
Neville withdrew accordingly, and Richard was soon absorbed in the
melancholy details which had been conveyed to him from England,
concerning the factions that were tearing to pieces his native
dominions--the disunion of his brothers John and Geoffrey, and the
quarrels of both with the High Justiciary Longchamp, Bishop of Ely--the
oppressions practised by the nobles upon the peasantry, and rebellion of
the latter against their masters, which had produced everywhere scenes
of discord, and in some instances the effusion of blood. Details of
incidents mortifying to his pride, and derogatory from his authority,
were intermingled with the earnest advice of his wisest and most
attached counsellors that he should presently return to England, as
his presence offered the only hope of saving the Kingdom from all the
horrors of civil discord, of which France and Scotland were likely to
avail themselves. Filled with the most painful anxiety, Richard read,
and again read, the ill-omened letters; compared the intelligence which
some of them contained with the same facts as differently stated in
others; and soon became totally insensible to whatever was passing
around him, although seated, for the sake of coolness, close to the
entrance of his tent, and having the curtains withdrawn, so that he
could see and be seen by the guards and others who were stationed
without.
Deeper in the shadow of the pavilion, and busied with the task his new
master had imposed, sat the Nubian slave, with his back rather turned
towards the King. He had finished adjusting and cleaning the hauberk and
brigandine, and was now busily employed on a broad pavesse, or buckler,
of unusual size, and covered with steel-plating, which Richard often
used in reconnoitring, or actually storming fortified places, as a more
effectual protection against missile weapons than the narrow triangular
shield used on horseback. This pavesse bore neither the royal lions
of England, nor any other device, to attract the observation of
the defenders of the walls against which it was advanced; the care,
therefore, of the armourer was addressed to causing its surface to shine
as bright as crystal, in which he seemed to be peculiarly successful.
Beyond the Nubian, and scarce visible from without, lay the large dog,
which might be termed his brother slave, and which, as if he felt awed
by being transferred to a royal owner, was couched close to the side of
the mute, with head and ears on the ground, and his limbs and tail drawn
close around and under him.
While the Monarch and his new attendant were thus occupied, another
actor crept upon the scene, and mingled among the group of English
yeomen, about a score of whom, respecting the unusually pensive posture
and close occupation of their Sovereign, were, contrary to their wont,
keeping a silent guard in front of his tent. It was not, however, more
vigilant than usual. Some were playing at games of hazard with small
pebbles, others spoke together in whispers of the approaching day of
battle, and several lay asleep, their bulky limbs folded in their green
mantles.
Amid these careless warders glided the puny form of a little old Turk,
poorly dressed like a marabout or santon of the desert--a sort of
enthusiasts, who sometimes ventured into the camp of the Crusaders,
though treated always with contumely, and often with violence. Indeed,
the luxury and profligate indulgence of the Christian leaders had
occasioned a motley concourse in their tents of musicians, courtesans,
Jewish merchants, Copts, Turks, and all the varied refuse of the Eastern
nations; so that the caftan and turban, though to drive both from
the Holy Land was the professed object of the expedition, were,
nevertheless, neither an uncommon nor an alarming sight in the camp of
the Crusaders. When, however, the little insignificant figure we have
described approached so nigh as to receive some interruption from the
warders, he dashed his dusky green turban from his head, showed that his
beard and eyebrows were shaved like those of a professed buffoon, and
that the expression of his fantastic and writhen features, as well as
of his little black eyes, which glittered like jet, was that of a crazed
imagination.
“Dance, marabout,” cried the soldiers, acquainted with the manners of
these wandering enthusiasts, “dance, or we will scourge thee with our
bow-strings till thou spin as never top did under schoolboy's lash.”
Thus shouted the reckless warders, as much delighted at having a subject
to tease as a child when he catches a butterfly, or a schoolboy upon
discovering a bird's nest.
The marabout, as if happy to do their behests, bounded from the earth,
and spun his giddy round before them with singular agility, which, when
contrasted with his slight and wasted figure, and diminutive appearance,
made him resemble a withered leaf twirled round and round at the
pleasure of the winter's breeze. His single lock of hair streamed
upwards from his bald and shaven head, as if some genie upheld him by
it; and indeed it seemed as if supernatural art were necessary to the
execution of the wild, whirling dance, in which scarce the tiptoe of
the performer was seen to touch the ground. Amid the vagaries of his
performance he flew here and there, from one spot to another, still
approaching, however, though almost imperceptibly, to the entrance of
the royal tent; so that, when at length he sunk exhausted on the earth,
after two or three bounds still higher than those which he had yet
executed, he was not above thirty yards from the King's person.
“Give him water,” said one yeoman; “they always crave a drink after
their merry-go-round.”
“Aha, water, sayest thou, Long Allen?” exclaimed another archer, with a
most scornful emphasis on the despised element; “how wouldst like such
beverage thyself, after such a morrice dancing?”
“The devil a water-drop he gets here,” said a third. “We will teach
the light-footed old infidel to be a good Christian, and drink wine of
Cyprus.”
“Ay, ay,” said a fourth; “and in case he be restive, fetch thou Dick
Hunter's horn, that he drenches his mare withal.”
A circle was instantly formed around the prostrate and exhausted
dervise, and while one tall yeoman raised his feeble form from the
ground, another presented to him a huge flagon of wine. Incapable of
speech, the old man shook his head, and waved away from him with his
hand the liquor forbidden by the Prophet. But his tormentors were not
thus to be appeased.
“The horn, the horn!” exclaimed one. “Little difference between a Turk
and a Turkish horse, and we will use him conforming.”
“By Saint George, you will choke him!” said Long Allen; “and besides, it
is a sin to throw away upon a heathen dog as much wine as would serve a
good Christian for a treble night-cap.”
“Thou knowest not the nature of these Turks and pagans, Long Allen,”
replied Henry Woodstall. “I tell thee, man, that this flagon of Cyprus
will set his brains a-spinning, just in the opposite direction that they
went whirling in the dancing, and so bring him, as it were, to himself
again. Choke? He will no more choke on it than Ben's black bitch on the
pound of butter.”
“And for grudging it,” said Tomalin Blacklees, “why shouldst thou grudge
the poor paynim devil a drop of drink on earth, since thou knowest he
is not to have a drop to cool the tip of his tongue through a long
eternity?”
“That were hard laws, look ye,” said Long Allen, “only for being a Turk,
as his father was before him. Had he been Christian turned heathen, I
grant you the hottest corner had been good winter quarters for him.”
“Hold thy peace, Long Allen,” said Henry Woodstall. “I tell thee that
tongue of thine is not the shortest limb about thee, and I prophesy that
it will bring thee into disgrace with Father Francis, as once about the
black-eyed Syrian wench. But here comes the horn. Be active a bit,
man, wilt thou, and just force open his teeth with the haft of thy
dudgeon-dagger.”
“Hold, hold--he is conformable,” said Tomalin; “see, see, he signs for
the goblet--give him room, boys! OOP SEY ES, quoth the Dutchman--down
it goes like lamb's-wool! Nay, they are true topers when once they
begin--your Turk never coughs in his cup, or stints in his liquoring.”
In fact, the dervise, or whatever he was, drank--or at least seemed to
drink--the large flagon to the very bottom at a single pull; and when
he took it from his lips after the whole contents were exhausted, only
uttered, with a deep sigh, the words, ALLAH KERIM, or God is merciful.
There was a laugh among the yeomen who witnessed this pottle-deep
potation, so obstreperous as to rouse and disturb the King, who, raising
his finger, said angrily, “How, knaves, no respect, no observance?”
All were at once hushed into silence, well acquainted with the temper of
Richard, which at some times admitted of much military familiarity, and
at others exacted the most precise respect, although the latter humour
was of much more rare occurrence. Hastening to a more reverent distance
from the royal person, they attempted to drag along with them the
marabout, who, exhausted apparently by previous fatigue, or overpowered
by the potent draught he had just swallowed, resisted being moved from
the spot, both with struggles and groans.
“Leave him still, ye fools,” whispered Long Allen to his mates; “by
Saint Christopher, you will make our Dickon go beside himself, and we
shall have his dagger presently fly at our costards. Leave him alone; in
less than a minute he will sleep like a dormouse.”
At the same moment the Monarch darted another impatient glance to the
spot, and all retreated in haste, leaving the dervise on the ground,
unable, as it seemed, to stir a single limb or joint of his body. In a
moment afterward all was as still and quiet as it had been before the
intrusion.