“I, Antoine Riczi,—­in the name of my worshipful lady, Dame Jehane, the daughter of Messire Charles until lately King of Navarre, the Duchess of Brittany and the Countess of Rougemont,—­do take you, Sire Henry of Lancaster, King of England and in title of France, and Lord of Ireland, to be my husband; and thereto I, Antoine Riczi, in the spirit of my said lady”—­the speaker paused here to regard the gross hulk of masculinity before him, and then smiled very sadly—­“in precisely the spirit of my said lady, I plight you my troth.”

Afterward the King made him presents of some rich garments of scarlet trimmed with costly furs, and of four silk belts studded with silver and gold, and with valuable clasps, of which the owner might well be proud, and Riczi returned to Lyonnois.  “Depardieux!” his uncle said; “so you return alone!”

“I return as did Prince Troilus,” said Riczi—­“to boast to you of liberal entertainment in the tent of Diomede.”

“You are certainly an inveterate fool,” the Vicomte considered after a prolonged appraisal of his face, “since there is always a deal of other pink-and-white flesh as yet unmortgaged—­Boy with my brother’s eyes!” the Vicomte said, in another voice; “I have heard of the task put upon you:  and I would that I were God to punish as is fitting!  But you are welcome home, my lad.”

So these two abode together at Montbrison for a long time, and in the purlieus of that place hunted and hawked, and made sonnets once in a while, and read aloud from old romances some five days out of the seven.  The verses of Riczi were in the year of grace 1410 made public, not without acclamation; and thereafter the stripling Comte de Charolais, future heir to all Burgundy and a zealous patron of rhyme, was much at Montbrison, and there conceived for Antoine Riczi such admiration as was possible to a very young man only.

In the year of grace 1412 the Vicomte, being then bedridden, died without any disease and of no malady save the inherencies of his age.  “I entreat of you, my nephew,” he said at last, “that always you use as touchstone the brave deed you did at Eltham.  It is necessary for a gentleman to serve his lady according to her commandments, but you performed the most absurd and the most cruel task which any woman ever imposed upon her lover and servitor in domnei.  I laugh at you, and I envy you.”  Thus he died, about Martinmas.

Now was Antoine Riczi a powerful baron, but he got no comfort of his lordship, because that old incendiary, the King of Darkness, daily added fuel to a smouldering sorrow until grief quickened into vaulting flames of wrath and of disgust.

“What now avail my riches?” said the Vicomte.  “How much wealthier was I when I was loved, and was myself an eager lover!  I relish no other pleasures than those of love.  I am Love’s sot, drunk with a deadly wine, poor fool, and ever I thirst.  All my chattels and my acres appear to me to be bright vapors, and the more my dominion and my power increase, the more rancorously does my heart sustain its bitterness over having been robbed of that fair merchandise which is the King of England’s.  To hate her is scant comfort and to despise her none at all, since it follows that I who am unable to forget the wanton am even more to be despised than she.  I will go into England and execute what mischief I may against her.”