"Knowst me not, Richard?" returned a suppressed voice in Provencal.
"Henry! Henry!" exclaimed Richard, and fell upon the foot of the low bed, weeping bitterly. "Is it come to this?"
"Ay, even to this," said the blind man, "that two sons of one father meet unknown-one with a changed name, the other with none at all, neither with the honoured one they were born to."
"Alack, alack!" was all Richard could say at the first moment, as he lifted himself up to look again at the first-born of his parents, the head of the brave troop of brethren, the gay, handsome, imperious young Lord de Montfort, whose proud head and gallant bearing he had looked at with a younger brother's imitative deference. What did he see but a wreck of a man, sitting crouched on the wretched bed, the left arm a mere stump, a bandage where the bright sarcastic eyes used to flash forth their dark fire, deep scars on all the small portion of the face that was visible through the over-grown masses of hair and beard, so plentifully sprinkled with white, that it would have seemed incredible that this man was but eight months older than the Prince, whose rival he had always been in personal beauty and activity. The beautiful child, clasped close to his breast, her face buried on his shoulder under his shaggy locks, was a strange contrast to his appearance, but only added to the look of piteous helplessness and desolation, as she hung upon him in her alarm at the agitation around her.
Richard had long been accustomed to think of his brother as dead; but such a spectacle as this was far more terrible to him, and his cheek blanched at the shock, as he gasped again, "Thou here, and thus! thou whom I thought slain!"
"Deem me so still," said his brother, "even as I deem the royal minion dead to me."
"Nay, Henry, thou knowst not."
"Who is present?" interrupted the blind man, raising his head and tossing back his hair with a gesture that for the first time gave Richard a sense that his eldest brother was indeed before him. "Methought I heard another voice."
"I am here, fair son," replied the old knight, "Father Robert of the Hospital! I will either leave thee, or keep thy secret as though it were thy shrift; but thou art sore spent, and mayst scarce talk more."
"Weariness and pain are past, Father, with my little one again in my bosom," said Henry; "and there are matters that must be spoken between me and this young brother of mine ere he quits this hut; and his voice resumed its old authoritative tone towards Richard. "Said you that he had saved my child?"
"He drew me from the river, Father," said Bessee looking up. "There was nothing to stand on, and it was so cold! And he took me in his arms and pulled me out, and put me in a boat; and the lady pulled off my blue coat, and put this one on me. Feel it, Father; oh, so pretty, so warm!"
"It was the Princess," said Richard; but Henry, not noticing, continued,
"Thou hast earned my pardon, Richard," and held out his remaining hand, somewhere towards the height where his brother's used to be.
Sir Robert smiled, saying, "Thou dost miscalculate thy brother's stature, son." And at the same moment Richard, who was now little short of his Cousin Edward in height, was kneeling by Henry, accepting and returning his embrace with agitation and gratitude, such as showed how their relative positions in the family still maintained their force; but Richard still asserted his independence so as to say, "When you have heard all, brother you will see that there is no need of pardoning me."
Henry, however, as perhaps Sir Robert had foreseen, instead of answering put his hand to his side, and sank back in a paroxysm of pain, ending in another swoon. The child stood by, quiet and frightened but too much used to similar occurrences to be as much terrified as was Richard, who thought his brother dying; but calling in the serving-brother, the old Hospitalier did all that was needed, and the blind man presently recovered and explained in a feeble voice that he had been jostled, thrown down, and trodden on, at the moment when he lost his hold of his little daughter; and this was evidently renewing his sufferings from the effect of an injury received in battle. "And what took thee there, son?" said Sir Robert, somewhat sharply.
"The harvest, Father," answered Henry, rousing himself to speak with a certain sarcasm in his tone. "It is the beggars' harvest wherever King Henry goes. We brethren of the wallet cannot afford to miss such windfalls."
"A beggar!" exclaimed Richard in horror.
"And what art thou?" retorted Henry, with a sudden fierceness.
"Listen, young men," said Sir Robert, "this I know, my patient there will soon be nothing if ye continue in this strain. A litter shall bring him to the infirmary."
"Nay," said Henry hastily, "not so, good Father. Here I abide, hap what may."
"And I abide with him," said Richard.
"Not so, I say," returned the Hospitalier, "unless thou wouldst slay him outright. Return to the Spital with me; and at morn, if he have recovered himself, unravel these riddles as thou and he will."
"It is well, Father," said Henry. "Go with him, Richard; but mark me. Be silent as the grave, and see me again."
And reluctant as he was, Richard was forced to comply.
CHAPTER VI-THE BEGGAR EARL
"Along with the nobles that fell at that tyde, His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his syde, Was felde by a blow he receivde in the fight; A blow that for ever deprivde him of sight." Old Beggar.
The chapel at the Spital was open to all who chose to attend. The deep choir was filled with the members of the Order, half a dozen knights in the stalls, and the novices and serving-brothers so ranged as to give full effect to the body of voice. Richard knelt on the stone floor outside the choir, intending after early mass to seek his brother; but to his surprise he found the blind man with his child at his feet in what was evidently his accustomed place, just within the door. His hair and beard were now arranged, his appearance was no longer squalid; but when he rose to depart, guided in part by the child, but also groping with a stick, he looked even more helpless than on his bed, and Richard sprang forward to proffer an arm for his support.
"Flemish cloth and frieze gown," said the object of his solicitude in a strange gibing voice; "court page and street beggar-how now, my master?"
"Lord Earl and elder brother," returned Richard, "thine is my service through life."
"Mine? Ho, ho! That much for thy service!" with a disdainful gesture of his fingers. "A strapping lad like thee would be the ruin of my trade. I might as well give up bag and staff at once."
"Nay, surely, wilt thou not?" exclaimed Richard in broken words from his extreme surprise. "The King and Prince only long to pardon and restore, and-"
"And thou wouldst well like to lord it at Kenilworth, earl in all but the name? Thou mayst do so yet without being cumbered with me or mine!"
"Thou dost me wrong, Henry," said Richard, much distressed. "I love the Prince, for none so truly honoured our blessed father as he, and for his sake he hath been most kind lord to me; but thou art the head of my house, my brother, and with all my heart do I long to render thee such service as-as may lighten these piteous sufferings."
"I believe thee, Richard; thou wert ever an honest simple-hearted lad," said Henry, in a different tone; "but the only service thou canst render me is to let me alone, and keep my secret. Here-I feel that we are at the stone bench, where I bask in the sun, and lay out my dish for the visitors of the gracious Order.-Here, Bessee, child, put the dish down," he added, retaining his hold of his brother, as if to feel whether Richard winced at this persistence in his strange profession. The little girl obeyed, and betook herself to the quiet sports of a lonely child, amusing herself with Leonillo, and sometimes returning to her father and obtaining his attention for a few moments, sometimes prattling to some passing brother of the Order, who perhaps made all the more of the pretty creature because this might be called an innocent breach of discipline. "And now, Master Page," said Henry in his tone of authority, yet with some sarcasm, "let us hear how long-legged Edward finished the work he had began on thee at Hereford-made thee captive in the battle, eh?"