Part 6 (1/2)

Then did the woodman embrace him with tears, crying, ”My brother, O my brother! it is I! it is Richard!”

”Thou in England!” cried the Count. ”Art thou mad?” And he frowned gloomily.

”Fear not for me,” replied the exile, tenderly raising the Count from the ground.

A narrow path wound through the wood to a ruined hermitage. The outlaw here prepared a bed of leaves for the Count, laid him softly thereon, and went to seek some refreshment. His loved brother might revive, and yet smile kindly on the playmate of his youth, though under a ban.

When Richard returned, there followed him like a dog a horse of the North-country breed, s.h.a.ggy, and in size not much greater than a stag-hound. Robert viewed him with surprise, and it seemed with derision.

”Despise not him who is able to bear thee out of the wood,” said Richard. ”Thou art faint; here is wine, and of no mean vintage.”

Robert drank from the earthen bottle, and his eye grew brighter, yet looked it not the more lovingly on Richard. He ate right gladly of the store of the landless and penniless,--dried venison and oaten bread,--and was refreshed, yet thanked him not. Richard gave fragments to the neighing steed. He ate no morsel himself, nor tasted the wine. His heart was full to bursting.

”Tell me of home,--of--of our father,” he said, at last, with deep, strong sobs.

”On the morrow, on the morrow,” said Robert, disposing himself for sleep. ”Thou wilt hear soon enough.”

But Richard seized him wildly by the shoulder, and bade him tell the worst.

”Nay, then, if thou _wilt_ know, he is dead. I, thy younger brother, am now thy superior.”

”For that I care not. As well thou, as I, to sit in my father's seat. But oh! left he no blessing for me? Did he not at the last believe me the victim of calumny?--Alas! No word? Not one dying thought of Richard?”

”He died suddenly.”

Richard wept long and bitterly, and when, with faltering tongue, he asked tidings of his betrothed, his face was covered; he saw not the guilty flush upon his brother's brow, for that he had spread a lying report of the exile's death.

”Would Bertha still brave the king's displeasure? Was she yet true to the unfortunate?”

”Bertha is a very woman. She hath forgotten the absent lover, and chosen another, and a better man.”

”Who, who hath supplanted me?” cried Richard fiercely, and springing upon his feet.

”I tell thee not, lest thou wreak on him thy spite against thy faithless fair.”

”Know that Bertha's choice, though a traitor, is safe from me, even were I, as I was, a man to meet a knight on equal terms.”

His generous heart could not dream of fraternal treachery. And when his rival saw this, and that he suspected him not as yet, he smiled to himself, turned his face to the wall, and closed his eyes, if so be he might cut off further question. Soon, falling into slumber, he clenched his hands, and ground his teeth. The sleep of a traitor is ever haunted by uneasy dreams, and dark shadows of coming doom fell upon his spirit.

Richard watched till dawn. Sometimes he started up to walk to and fro, beating his bosom, and wringing his hands in agony. Anon he threw himself prostrate in the stupor of despair. At the first carol of birds in the forest, sleep surprised his weary senses, and the peace of the innocent settled upon his features.

Side by side lay the brothers, alike in form, alike even in feature. But in heart they bore no mark of the resemblance of kindred.

Envy of the elder-born early possessed the soul of Robert, like a base fiend; first had it driven thence love, and lastly honor.

Does no one seek for the absent lord of the castle, while the weary hunters return to be his guests? Keeps no one anxious vigil, the live-long night? The unloving is not loved. But he hath a king beneath his roof; a king and lords of high degree sit at the morning board, and shall none but va.s.sals be hospitably proud and busy?

Ladies of rank were there, and among them, pale and silent, sat Bertha, looking on the king, it seemed, with an upbraiding eye. An angry gloom sat upon his grimly compressed lips, and sadness was upon his brow; for kingly power was naught, since remorse could not undo a wrong done to one who no longer lived, and vengeance could not reach its absent object. Richard's innocence had come to light, and Robert, albeit he knew it not, was now the dishonored outlaw.

Ere the clock of the distant minster rung the hour of ten, the royal cavalcade wound from the gates of the castle. At the same hour Count Robert awoke, and saw that the sun was already very high. It shone upon the calm face of Richard, tempered with quivering shadows from the leafy canopy above.

”Up, brother Richard!” cried the Count; ”thou wast ever a sluggard.”