Madame Alois of France came out of the inner tent, a slinking, thin
girl, with the white and tragic face of the fool in a comedy set in
black hair. Richard thought she was mad by the way she stared about her
from one man to another; but he went down on his knee in a moment.
Prince John turned stiff, the old King bent his brows to watch Richard.
The lady, who was dressed in black, and looked to be half fainting,
shrank in an odd way towards the wall, as if to avoid a whip. 'Too long
in England, poor soul,' Richard thought; 'but why did she come from the
King's tent?'

It was not a cheerful meeting, nor did the King show any desire to make
it better. When by roundabout and furtive ways Madame Alois at last
stood drooping by his chair, he began to talk to her in English, a
language unknown to Richard, though familiar enough, he saw, to his
father and brother. 'It seems to be his Grace's desire to make me
ridiculous,' he went on to say to himself: 'what a dead-level of grim
words! In English, it appears, you do not talk. You stab with the
tongue.' In truth, there was no conversation. The King or the Prince
spoke, and Madame Alois moistened her lips; she looked nowhere but at
the old tyrant, not at his eyes, but above them, at his forehead, and
with a trepitant gaze, like a watched hare's. 'The King has her in
thrall, soul and body,' Richard considered. Then his knee began to ache,
and he released it. 'Fair sire,' he began in his own tongue. Madame
Alois gave a start, and 'Ha, Richard,' says the King, 'art thou still
there, man?'

'Where else, my lord?' asked the son. The father looked at Alois.

'Deign to recognise in this baron, Madame,' he said, 'my son the Count