'No, sire,' said Richard, looking serenely down at the working face.

'Nor ever will have,' snarled the King. 'Have you the Knight of Béarn?'

'I have, sire.'

'Ill company, Richard. It is a white-faced, lying beast, with a most
goatish beard. Have you your singing monk?'

'I have, sire.'

'Shameful company. Have you Adhémar of Limoges?'

'Yes, sire.'

'Silly company. Leave him with his women. Have you your Abbot Milo?'

'Yes.'

'Sick company.' His head sank into his breast; he found himself suddenly
tired, even of reviling, and had to sit down again. Richard felt a tide
of pity; looking down at the huddled old man, he held out his hand.

'Let us not quarrel, father,' he said; but that brought up the King's
head, like a call to arms.

'A last question, Richard. Have you dared bring here Bertran de Born?'
He was on his feet again for the reply, and the two men faced each
other. Everybody knew how serious the question was. It sobered the
Count, but drove the pity out of him.