less English than I am, if I loved the French.'

He tried to draw her in; but she, rather, strained away from him,
elbowed her knee, and rested her chin upon her hand. She looked gravely
down to the whitening logs, where the ashes were gaining on the red.

'My lord loves not the French,' she said, 'but he loves honour. He is
the King's son, loving his father.'

'By my soul, I do not,' he assured her, with perfect truth, then he
caught her round the waist and turned her bodily to face him. After he
had kissed her well he began to speak more seriously.

'Jehane,' he said, 'I have thought all this stifling night upon the
heath, Homing to her I am seeking my best. My best? You are all I have
in the world. If honour is in my hand, do I not owe it to you? Or shall
a man use women like dogs, to play with them in idle moods, toss them
bones under the table, afterwards kick them out of doors? Child, you
know me better. What!' he cried out, with his head very high, 'Shall a
man not choose his own wife?'

'No,' said Jehane, ready for him; 'no, Richard, unless the people shall
choose their own king.'

'God chooses the king,' says Richard, 'or so we choose to believe.'

'Then God must appoint the wife,' Jehane said, and tried to get free.
But this could not be allowed, as she knew.

She was gentle with him, reasoning. 'The King your father is an old man,