'Brother, a word with you,' says he; and John came twittering back. The
two were alone in the tent.

This John--Sansterre, Landlos, Lackland, so they variously called
him--was a timid copy of his brother, a wry-necked reedy Richard with a
sniff. Not so tall, yet more spare, with blue eyes more pallid than his
brother's, and protruding where Richard's were inset, the difference lay
more in degree than kind. Richard was of heroic build, but a well-knit,
well-shaped hero; in John the arms were too long, the head too small,
the brow too narrow. Richard's eyes were perhaps too wide apart; no
doubt John's were too near together. Richard twitched his fingers when
he was moved, John bit his cheek. Richard stooped from the neck, John
from the shoulders. When Richard threw up his head you saw the lion;
John at bay reminded you of a wolf in a corner. John snarled at such
times, Richard breathed through his nose. John showed his teeth when he
was crossed, Richard when he was merry. So many thousand points of
unlikeness might be named, all small: the Lord knows here are enough.
The Angevin cat-and-dog nature was fairly divided between these two.
Richard had the sufficiency of the cat, John the dependence of a dog;
John had the cat's secretiveness, Richard the dog's dash. At heart John
was a thief.

He feared and hated his brother; so when Richard said, 'Brother, a word
with you,' John tried to disguise apprehension in disgust. The result
was a very sick smile.

'Willingly, dear brother, and the more so--' he began; but Richard cut
him short.

'What under the light of the sky is the matter with that lady?' he asked