At Evreux, across the heath, Count Richard found his company: the
Viscount Adhémar of Limoges (called for the present the Good Viscount),
the Count of Perigord, Sir Gaston of Béarn (who really loved him), the
Bishop of Castres, and the Monk of Montauban (a singing-bird); some
dozen of knights with their esquires, pages, and men-at-arms. He waited
two days there for Abbot Milo to come up with last news of Jehane; then
at the head of sixty spears he rode fleetly over the marshes towards
Louviers. After his first, 'You are well met, my lords,' he had said
very little, showing a cold humour; after a colloquy with Milo, which he
had before he left his bed, he said nothing at all. Alone, as became one
of his race, he rode ahead of his force; not even the chirping Monk (who
remembered his brother Henry and often sighed for him) cared to risk a
shot from his strong eyes. They were like blue stones, full of the cold
glitter of their fire. It was at times like this, when a man stands
naked confronting his purpose, that one saw the hag riding on the back
of Anjou.

He was not thinking of it now, but the truth is that there had hardly
been a time in his short life when he had not been his father's open
enemy. He could have told you that it had not been always his fault,
though he would never have told you. But I say that what he, a youth of
thirty, had made of his inheritance was as nothing to that elder's
wasting of his. In moments of hot rage Richard knew this, and justified
himself; but the melting hour came again when he heaped all reproach
upon himself, believing that but for such and such he might have loved
this rooted, terrible old man who assuredly loved not him. Richard was
neither mule nor jade; he was open to persuasion on two sides.
Compunction was one: you could touch him on the heart and bring him