“Why should she?  I am almost twice her age, an aging fellow now, battered and selfish and too indolent to love her—­say, as Gwyllem loved her.  I did well to kill that Gwyllem.  I am profoundly glad I killed him, and I thoroughly enjoyed doing it; but, after all, the man loved her in his fashion, and to the uttermost reach of his gross nature.  I love her in a rather more decorous and acceptable fashion, it is true, but only a half of me loves her.  The other half of me remembers that I am aging, that Caradawc’s hut is leaky, that, in fine, bodily comfort is the single luxury of which one never tires.  I am a very contemptible creature, the empty scabbard of a man, precisely as Owain said.”  This settled, Richard whistled to his dog.

The sun had set.  There were no shadows anywhere as Richard and his sheep went homeward, but on every side the colors of the world were more sombre.  Twice his flock roused a covey of partridges which had settled for the night.  The screech-owl had come out of his hole, and bats were already blundering about, and the air was cooling.  There was as yet but one star in the green and cloudless heaven, and this was very large, like a beacon:  it appeared to him symbolical that he trudged away from this star.

Next morning the Welshmen came, and now the trap was ready for Henry of Lancaster.

It befell just two days later, about noon, that while Richard idly talked with Branwen a party of soldiers, some fifteen in number, rode down the river’s bank from the ford above.  Their leader paused, then gave an order.  The men drew rein.  He cantered forward.

“God give you joy, fair sir,” said Richard, when the cavalier was near him.

The new-comer raised his visor.  “God give you eternal joy, my fair cousin,” he said, “and very soon.  Now send away this woman before that happens which must happen.”

“Do you plan,” said Richard, “to disfigure the stage of our quiet pastorals with murder?”

“I design my own preservation,” King Henry answered, “for while you live my rule is insecure.”

“I am sorry,” Richard said, “that in part my blood is yours.”

Twice he sounded his horn, and everywhere from rustling underwoods arose the half-naked Welshmen.  Said Richard:  “You should read history more carefully, Cousin Henry.  You might have profited, as I have done, by considering the trick which our grandfather, old Edward Longshanks, played on the French King at Mezelais.  As matters stand, your men are one to ten.  You are impotent.  Now, now we balance our accounts!  These persons here will first deal with your followers.  Then they will conduct you to Glyndwyr, who has long desired to deal with you himself, in privacy, since that Whit-Monday when you murdered his son.”

The King began, “In mercy, sire—!” and Richard laughed a little, saying: 

“That virtue is not overabundant among us of Oriander’s blood, as we both know.  No, cousin, Fate and Time are merry jesters.  See, now, their latest mockery!  You the King of England ride to Sycharth to your death, and I the tender of sheep depart into London, without any hindrance, to reign henceforward over these islands.  To-morrow you are worm’s-meat, Cousin Henry:  to-morrow, as yesterday, I am King of England.”