He turns away, sick at
the sight.
One look more. Bertha has thrown herself into the arms of his hated
brother. He tears his beard; he curses his own natal day, and the
stars that presided over his birth and destiny.
Yet must he look once more, though to an envious soul the sight of a
brother's happiness is like the torment of purgatorial fire. Richard
is standing with his hand extended towards him. He is pleading the
cause of the mean and cowardly enemy who betrayed him. He pities and
forgives him; he even loves him still, for is he not his brother? As
the eyes of the king and of all the surrounding crowd are turned on
him, burning shame subdues the warring passions that fill the heart of
Robert, and a faint emotion of gratitude brings a tear to fall upon
his hot cheek. Something of old, childish love awakes in his bosom,
like dew in a dry land.
The king granted Richard's prayer, the more readily because his anger
was smothered by contempt. The title and inheritance returned to the
heir, who was worthy his ancient name. Robert, to the day of his
death, lived on his brother's bounty, harmless, the rather that the
king's decree had gone forth that in no case should he be Richard's
successor, or inherit aught from him.
* * * * *
NOTE.
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