And so Eleanor's devoted deed, the true saving of her husband, has lived on as a mere delusive tradition, weakly credited by the romantic, while the credit of his recovery has been retained by the Knight-Templars' leech. Not a sound was uttered by the Prince while under those hands; but when his wife was permitted to return to him, she found him in a dead faint, and the silver reliquary she had left with him crushed flat and limp between his fingers.
Richard had given his attendance all the time, and for several hours afterwards, during which the Princess hung over her husband, endeavouring to restore him from the state of exhaustion in which he scarcely seemed conscious of anything but her presence. Late in the evening, some one came to the entrance of the tent, and beckoned to the young squire; he came out expecting to receive some message, but to his extreme surprise found himself in the grasp of the Provost Marshal.
"On what charge?" he demanded, so soon as he was far enough beyond the precincts of his tent not to risk a disturbance.
"By the command of the council. On the charge of being privy to the attempt on the Prince's life."
"By whom preferred?" asked Richard.
"By the Lord Hamlyn de Valence."
Richard attempted not another word. In effect the condition of the Prince seemed to him so hopeless that his most acute suffering at the moment was in the being prevented from ministering to him, or watching for a last word or look of recognition. He had no heart for self-vindication, even if he had not known its utter futility with men who had been prejudiced against him from the outset. Nor had he the opportunity, for the Provost Marshal conducted him at once to the tent where he was to be in ward for the night, a heap of straw for him to lie upon, and a guard of half a dozen archers outside; and there was he left to his despairing prayers for the Prince's life. He could dwell on nothing else, there was no room in his mind for any thought but of that glory of manhood thus laid low, and of the anguish of the sweet face of the Princess.
"Sir-!" there was a low murmur near him-"now is the time. I have brought an archer's gown and barrett, and we may easily get past the yeomen." These last words were uttered, as on hands and knees a figure whose dark outline could barely be discerned, crept under the border of the tent.
"Who art thou?" hastily inquired Richard.
"You should know me, Sir,-I have done you many a good turn, and served your house truly."
"Talk not of truth, thou traitor," said Richard, recognizing Dustifoot's voice. "Knowst thou that but for the Prince's clemency thou hadst a year ago been out of the reach of the cruel evil thou hast now shared in."
"Nay, now, Lord Richard," returned the man, "you should not treat thus an honest fellow that would fain do you service."
"I need no service such as thine," returned Richard. "Thy service has made my brothers murderers, and brought ruin and woe unspeakable upon the land."
"Beshrew me," muttered the man, "but one would have thought the young damoiseau would have had more feeling about his father's death! But I swore to do Sir Simon's bidding, so that is no concern of mine; and he bade me, if any one strove to lay hands on you, Sir, to lead you down to Kishon Brook, where he will meet us with a plump of spears."
"Meet him then," said Richard, "and say to him that if from his crag above, on Carmel, he sees me hung on the gallows tree as a traitor, he may count that I am willingly offered for our family sin! Ay, and that if he thinks an old man's hairs brought down to the grave, a broken-hearted wife, helpless orphans, and a land without a head, to be a grateful offering to my father, let him enjoy the thought of how the righteous Earl would have viewed all the desolation that will fall on England without the one-one scholar who knew how to value and honour his lessons."
"Hush! Sir," hastily interposed Dustifoot; but it was too late, the murmur of voices had already been caught by the guard, and quick as he was to retreat, their torches discovered him as he was creeping out, and he was dragged back by the feet, and the light held up to his face, while many voices proclaimed him as the rogue who had been foremost in admitting the assassin to the royal tent. It was from the tumult of voices that Richard first understood that on examining the body of the murderer, it had been ascertained that he was neither a Bedouin nor one of the assassins belonging to the Old Man of the Mountain, but an European, probably a Provencal; and this, added to Hamlyn's representation of Richard's words, together with what the Earls of Lancaster and Gloucester recollected, had directed the suspicion upon himself. And here was, as it seemed, undeniable evidence of his connection with the plot!
The miserable Dustifoot, vainly imploring his intercession, was tied hand and foot, and the guard returned to the outside of the tent, except one archer, who thought it needful to bring in his torch, and keep the prisoners in sight.
The night passed wearily, and with morning Dustifoot was removed to a place of captivity more befitting his degree; but of the Prince, Richard only heard that he continued to be in great danger. No attempt on the part of the council was made to examine their prisoner; and Richard suspected, as time wore on, that no one chose to act in this time of suspense for fear of incurring the lion-like wrath of Edward in the event of his recovery, but that in case of his death, small would be his own chances of life. Death had fewer horrors for the lonely boy than it would have had for one with whom life had been brighter. In battle for the Cross, or in shielding his Prince's life, it would have been welcome, but death, branded with vile ingratitude, as a traitor to that master, was abhorrent. Shrunk up in the corner of the tent, half asleep after the night's vigil, yet too miserable for the entire oblivion of rest, Richard spent the day in dull despair, listening for sounds without with an intensity of attention that seemed to pervade every limb, and yet with snatches of sleep that brought dreams more intolerable than the reality which they yet seemed to enhance.
At last, however, the sultry closeness of the day subsided, the Angelus bell sounded far off from the churches and convents of Acre, and near from the chapel tent, and the devotions that it proclaimed were not ended when Richard heard the cry of the crusading watch- "Remember the Holy Sepulchre."
Yes, the Holy Sepulchre might not be recovered and reached by the English army, but it might still be remembered, and therein be laid down all struggles of the will, all rebellious agony, at the being misunderstood, misused, vituperated, all suffering might there be offered up; nor could the most ignominious death stand between him and the thought of that Holy Tomb, and of the joy beyond.-Son of a man who, sorely tried, had drawn his sword against his king, brother of wilful murderers, perhaps to die innocent was the best fate he could hope; and in accordance with the doctrine of his time, he hoped that his death might serve as a part of a sacrifice for the family guilt. Nay, the Prince gone, wherefore should he wish to live?
"Don't you see? The Prince's signet! He said I should bring him! Clown that thou art, hast no eyes nor ears? What, don't you know me? I am the young lord of Dunster, the Prince's foot-page. It is his command."
And amid some perplexed mutterings from the guard, little John of Dunster burst into the tent. "Up, up," he cried, "you are to come to the Prince instantly."
"How fares he?"-Richard's one question of the day.
"Sorely ill at ease," said the boy, "but he wants you, he calls for you, and no one would tell him where you were, so I spoke out at last, and he bade me take his ring and bring you, for 'tis his pleasure. Come now, for the Earl of Lancaster and Hamlyn are gone to take the Princess to Acre, and my Lord of Gloucester has taken his red head off to sleep, and no one is there but old Raymond and some of the grooms.