"Thou seest, Edith," whispered the queen, "we shall but incense him."

"Be it so," said Edith, stepping forward. "I--your poor kinswoman, crave
you for justice rather than mercy, and to that cry the ear of a monarch
should be ever open."

"Ha! our cousin Edith!" said Richard, rising. "She speaks ever
king-like, and king-like I will answer her."

"My lord," she said, "this good knight whose blood you are about to
spill hath fallen from his duty through a snare set for him in idleness
and folly. A message sent to him in the name of one--why should I not
speak it?--it was in my own--induced him to leave his post."

"And you saw him then, cousin?" said the king, biting his lips to keep
down his passion. "Where?"

"In the tent of her majesty, the queen."

"Of your royal consort! Now, by my father's soul, Edith, thou shalt rue
this thy life long in a monastery."

"My liege," said Edith, "your greatness licences tyranny. My honour is
as little touched as yours, and my lady, the queen, can prove it if she
thinks fit. But I have not come here to excuse myself or inculpate
others--"

The king was about to answer with much anger, when a Carmelite monk
entered hastily, and flinging himself on his knees before the king,
conjured him to stop the execution. It was the hermit of Engaddi, and to