for a man was transformed by his burning eyes, with their fuel of pain,
into the similitude of a fallen angel. The devil of Anjou sat eating
King Henry's eyes, and you saw him at his meal. It gave the man the look
of a wild boar easing his tusks against a tree, horrible, yet content to
be abhorred, splendid, because so strong and lonely. But the prospect
was not comfortable. Little as he knew of his father, Richard could make
no mistake here. The old King was in a picksome mood, fretted by rage:
angry that his son should kneel there, more than angry that he had not
knelt before.

The play began, like a farce. The King affected not to see him, let him
kneel on. Richard did kneel on, as stiff as a rod. The King talked with
obscene jocosity, every snap betraying his humour, to Prince John; he
scandalised even his bishops, he abashed even his barons. He infinitely
degraded himself, yet seemed to wallow in disgrace. So Richard's gorge
(a tender organ) rose to hear him. 'God, what wast Thou about, to let
such a hog be made?' he muttered, loud enough for at least three people
to hear. The King heard it and was pleased; the Prince heard it, and
with a scared eye perceived that Bohun had heard it. The King went
grating on, John fidgeted; Bohun, greatly daring, whispered in his
master's ear.

The King replied with a roar which all the camp might have heard. 'Ha!
Sacred Face, let him kneel, Bohun. That is a new custom for him, useful
science for a man of his trade. All men of the sword come to it sooner
or later--sooner or later, by God!'

Hereupon Richard, very deliberately, rose to his feet and stepped
forward to the throne. His great height was a crowning abomination. The
King blinked up at him, showing his tushes.