The Life and Death of Richard Yea-and-Nay | Page 2

It is black
and golden, slim and strong, cat and dog. Hunger drives a dog to hunt,
so the leopard; passion the cat, so the leopard. A cat is sufficient unto
himself, and a leopard is so; but a dog hangs on a man's nod, and a
leopard can so be beguiled. A leopard is sleek as a cat and pleased by
stroking; like a cat he will scratch his friend on occasion. Yet again, he
has a dog's intrepidity, knows no fear, is single-purposed, not to be
called off, longanimous. But the cat in him makes him wary, tempts
him to treacherous dealing, keeps him apart from counsels, advises him
to keep his own. So the leopard is a lonely beast.' This is interesting,
and may be true. But mark him as he goes on.
'I knew the man, my dear master and a great king, who brought the
leopards into the shield of England, more proper to do it than his father,

being more the thing he signified. Of him, therefore, torn by two
natures, cast in two moulds, sport of two fates; the hymned and reviled,
the loved and loathed, spendthrift and a miser, king and a beggar, the
bond and the free, god and man; of King Richard Yea-and-Nay, so
made, so called, and by that unmade, I thus prepare my account.'
So far the abbot with much learning and no little verbosity casts his net.
He has the weakness of his age, you observe, and must begin at the
beginning; but this is not our custom. Something of Time is behind us;
we are conscious of a world replete, and may assume that we have
digested part of it. Milo, indeed, like all candid chroniclers, has his
value. He is excellent upon himself, a good relish with your meal.
However, as we are concerned with King Richard, you shall dip into
his bag for refreshment, but must leave the victualling to me.
CHAPTER I
OF COUNT RICHARD, AND THE FIRES BY NIGHT
I choose to record how Richard Count of Poictou rode all through one
smouldering night to see Jehane Saint-Pol a last time. It had so been
named by the lady; but he rode in his hottest mood of Nay to that, yet
careless of first or last so he could see her again. Nominally to remit his
master's sins, though actually (as he thought) to pay for his own, the
Abbot Milo bore him company, if company you can call it which left
the good man, in pitchy dark, some hundred yards behind. The way,
which was long, led over Saint Andrew's Plain, the bleakest stretch of
the Norman march; the pace, being Richard's, was furious, a pounding
gallop; the prize, Richard's again, showed fitfully and afar, a twinkling
point of light. Count Richard knew it for Jehane's torch, and saw no
other spark; but Milo, faintly curious on the lady's account, was more
concerned with the throbbing glow which now and again shuddered in
the northern sky. Nature had no lamps that night, and made no sign by
cry of night-bird or rustle of scared beast: there was no wind, no rain,
no dew; she offered nothing but heat, dark, and dense oppression.
Topping the ridge of sand, where was the Fosse des Noyées, place of
shameful death, the solitary torch showed a steady beam; and there also,

ahead, could be seen on the northern horizon that rim of throbbing
light.
'God pity the poor!' said Count Richard, and scourged forward.
'God pity me!' said gasping Milo; 'I believe my stomach is in my head.'
So at last they crossed the pebbly ford and found the pines, then
cantered up the path of light which streamed from the Dark Tower. As
core of this they saw the lady stand with a torch above her head; when
they drew rein she did not move. Her face, moon-shaped, was as pale
as a moon; her loose hair, catching light, framed it with gold. She was
all white against the dark, seemed to loom in it taller than she was or
could have been. She was Jehane Saint-Pol, Jehane 'of the Fair Girdle,'
so called by her lovers and friends, to whom for a matter of two years
this hot-coloured, tallest, and coldest of the Angevins had been light of
the world.
The check upon their greeting was the most curious part of a curious
business, that one should have travelled and the other watched so long,
and neither urge the end of desire. The Count sat still upon his horse, so
for duty's sake did the aching abbot; the girl stood still in the entry-way,
holding up her dripping torch. Then, 'Child, child,' cried the Count,
'how is it with thee?' His voice trembled, and so