Swept from his saddle by a low branch, Count Robert lay stunned upon
the ground. The hunting-party swept on, the riderless steed galloping
wildly among them. No man turned back; not one loved the Count better
than his sport.
There came to the spot a man in a woodman's garb, yet of a knightly
and noble aspect. He bent over the fallen man, and bathed his temples,
turning back the heavy, clustering locks. The Count, opening his eyes,
gazed on him at first without surprise; he thought himself at home,
however he came there, so familiar was the face.
Then did the woodman embrace him with tears, crying, "My brother, O my
brother! it is I! it is Richard!"
"Thou in England!" cried the Count. "Art thou mad?" And he frowned
gloomily.
"Fear not for me," replied the exile, tenderly raising the Count from
the ground.
A narrow path wound through the wood to a ruined hermitage. The outlaw
here prepared a bed of leaves for the Count, laid him softly thereon,
and went to seek some refreshment. His loved brother might revive, and
yet smile kindly on the playmate of his youth, though under a ban.
When Richard returned, there followed him like a dog a horse of the
North-country breed, shaggy, and in size not much greater than a
stag-hound. Robert viewed him with surprise, and it seemed with
derision.
"Despise not him who is able to bear thee out of the wood," said
Richard. "Thou art faint; here is wine, and of no mean vintage."
Robert drank from the earthen bottle, and his eye grew brighter, yet
looked it not the more lovingly on Richard. He ate right gladly of the
store of the landless and penniless,--dried venison and oaten
bread,--and was refreshed, yet thanked him not. Richard gave fragments
to the neighing steed. He ate no morsel himself, nor tasted the
wine. His heart was full to bursting.
"Tell me of home,--of--of our father," he said, at last, with deep,
strong sobs.
"On the morrow, on the morrow," said Robert, disposing himself for
sleep. "Thou wilt hear soon enough."
But Richard seized him wildly by the shoulder, and bade him tell the
worst.
"Nay, then, if thou _wilt_ know, he is dead. I, thy younger brother,
am now thy superior."
"For that I care not. As well thou, as I, to sit in my father's
seat. But oh! left he no blessing for me? Did he not at the last
believe me the victim of calumny?--Alas! No word? Not one dying
thought of Richard?"
"He died suddenly."
Richard wept long and bitterly, and when, with faltering tongue, he
asked tidings of his betrothed, his face was covered; he saw not the
guilty flush upon his brother's brow, for that he had spread a lying
report of the exile's death.
"Would Bertha still brave the king's displeasure? Was she yet true to
the unfortunate?"
"Bertha is a very woman. She hath forgotten the absent lover, and
chosen another, and a better man."
"Who, who hath supplanted me?" cried Richard fiercely, and springing
upon his feet.
"I tell thee not, lest thou wreak on him thy spite against thy
faithless fair."
"Know that Bertha's choice, though a traitor, is safe from me, even
were I, as I was, a man to meet a knight on equal terms."
His generous heart could not dream of fraternal treachery. And when
his rival saw this, and that he suspected him not as yet, he smiled to
himself, turned his face to the wall, and closed his eyes, if so be he
might cut off further question. Soon, falling into slumber, he
clenched his hands, and ground his teeth. The sleep of a traitor is
ever haunted by uneasy dreams, and dark shadows of coming doom fell
upon his spirit.
Richard watched till dawn. Sometimes he started up to walk to and fro,
beating his bosom, and wringing his hands in agony. Anon he threw
himself prostrate in the stupor of despair. At the first carol of
birds in the forest, sleep surprised his weary senses, and the peace
of the innocent settled upon his features.
Side by side lay the brothers, alike in form, alike even in
feature. But in heart they bore no mark of the resemblance of kindred.
Envy of the elder-born early possessed the soul of Robert, like a base
fiend; first had it driven thence love, and lastly honor.
Does no one seek for the absent lord of the castle, while the weary
hunters return to be his guests? Keeps no one anxious vigil, the
live-long night? The unloving is not loved. But he hath a king beneath
his roof; a king and lords of high degree sit at the morning board,
and shall none but vassals be hospitably proud and busy?
Ladies of rank were there, and among them, pale and silent, sat
Bertha, looking on the king, it seemed, with an upbraiding eye. An
angry gloom sat upon his grimly compressed lips, and sadness was upon
his brow; for kingly power was naught, since remorse could not undo a
wrong done to one who no longer lived, and vengeance could not reach
its absent object. Richard's innocence had come to light, and Robert,
albeit he knew it not, was now the dishonored outlaw.
Ere the clock of the distant minster rung the hour of ten, the royal
cavalcade wound from the gates of the castle. At the same hour Count
Robert awoke, and saw that the sun was already very high. It shone
upon the calm face of Richard, tempered with quivering shadows from
the leafy canopy above.
"Up, brother Richard!" cried the Count; "thou wast ever a sluggard."
And Richard, at his bidding, filled his hunting-pouch with provisions
for the way, and went before, leading the little Northern nag, which
the Count bestrode. He bore himself bravely under the weight of a
rider whose feet nearly grazed the turf on each side.
Slowly they wound through the tangled wood. "Stay, I will lighten thy
burden for thee," said Robert, "if thou hast not left the bottle
behind. Here's to the fair Bertha. What, thou wilt not drink? Then
thou hast resigned her;--she is not worth a thought. Thou wilt not
peril thy life to see her again, the false one who careth not for
thee. Now depart, and when the king's wrath is overpast, I will
beseech him for thee. Leave thy cause in a brother's hands." But
Richard went not back, though, when they came to the edge of the wood,
they beheld the king's train advancing in the broad highway.
"Fly, Richard; escape while thou mayest!" cried Robert, yet offered
he not the horse for the greater speed. "Found on English ground,
thou diest a felon's death. Disgrace not thy family. Carest thou not
for life?" he cried, pursuing Richard, who stinted not, nor stayed, at
the sight of the king, but the rather hasted forward.
"What is life to me?" said Richard. "Let the king do with me as he
will." He strode onward proudly, with folded arms, offering himself to
the view of Edward, who as yet saw him not, or only as a forester.
"Halt at least that I may spur on and implore for thee," said Robert,
for he hoped that he might deliver him a prisoner to some one in
attendance, that he should not come to speech of the king.
With this wily purpose, he galloped forward. A shout arose, "The
traitor! The traitor!" He was made prisoner by no gentle hands, and,
at a nod from the king, found himself led away to the rear, but not
far removed.
He looked about for Richard. Could he not yet wave him back? Should
the king see that noble face, he must be moved to mercy, at least so
far as to give him audience. The brothers know not yet that all is
reversed. Robert sees a man in russet clothing kneel at the king's
stirrup; he sees the royal hand extended to raise him; he sees many
press forward eager to welcome the wanderer. He turns away, sick at
the sight.
One look more. Bertha has thrown herself into the arms of his hated
brother. He tears his beard; he curses his own natal day, and the
stars that presided over his birth and destiny.
Yet must he look once more, though to an envious soul the sight of a
brother's happiness is like the torment of purgatorial fire. Richard
is standing with his hand extended towards him. He is pleading the
cause of the mean and cowardly enemy who betrayed him. He pities and
forgives him; he even loves him still, for is he not his brother? As
the eyes of the king and of all the surrounding crowd are turned on
him, burning shame subdues the warring passions that fill the heart of
Robert, and a faint emotion of gratitude brings a tear to fall upon
his hot cheek. Something of old, childish love awakes in his bosom,
like dew in a dry land.
The king granted Richard's prayer, the more readily because his anger
was smothered by contempt. The title and inheritance returned to the
heir, who was worthy his ancient name. Robert, to the day of his
death, lived on his brother's bounty, harmless, the rather that the
king's decree had gone forth that in no case should he be Richard's
successor, or inherit aught from him.
* * * * *
NOTE.--Here ends the tale, but by patient research we have discovered
one verse of an ancient ballad, supposed to have the same tradition
for its subject. It is preserved in a curious collection of
fragmentary poetry, to be found in most private libraries, and, in its
more ancient and valuable editions, in the repositories of
antiquaries. It stands, in the modern copy which we possess, as
follows:--
Richard and Robert were two pretty men;
Both laid abed till the clock struck ten.
Up jumps Robert, and looks at the sky;
"Oho, brother Richard, the sun's very high!
You go before, with the bottle and bag,
And I'll come behind, on little Jack nag."