Part 26

The ill-will that had always existed between Richard and the King of France now led to constant petty wars between them. To secure his Norman province, Richard built on its border a splendid fortress, which he called his Château Gaillard,--"Saucy Castle." Amazed and enraged at the wonderful strength of this stronghold, perched on a rocky mount five hundred feet high, the French king exclaimed,--

"I would take it if its walls were of iron!"

Richard, with all of his old insolence, retorted, "And I would hold it, were its walls of butter!"

But the final struggle that both kings were planning never took place.

Richard, who was in much need of money for his army, heard that a vassal of his had found a hidden treasure of great value, including twelve gold knights seated around a golden table. This Vidomar, Lord of Chaluz, when Richard demanded that, according to law, he share the treasure with his lord the king, replied that nothing had been found except a pot of ancient coins. The king did not believe this story, and set siege to the castle of Chaluz, determined to obtain the golden knights. There Richard was struck down by an arrow from the bow of Bertrand de Gourdan, a nobleman of Poictiers. The wound proved to be a mortal one. The king, when assured that he was dying, sent for Bertrand, for the castle had meanwhile been taken and the knight captured.

"Wretch," said the dying king, "what have I done to thee that thou shouldst attempt my life?"

"Thou hast had my father and two brothers put to death, and hast threatened to slay me," replied the undaunted youth. The prostrate king, looking at him in silence a moment, said,--

"I forgive thee." Then turning to his captain, Richard added, "Let his chains be removed, set him free, and give him a hundred shillings."

This act of noble forgiveness was the last deed of the erring but great-hearted king.

The death so often defied on the battlefield, Richard met calmly, with the courage that had never failed him in life,--that splendid courage which won for him the heroic title of Lionheart.

RICHARD'S LAMENT

No captive knight, whom chains confine, Can tell his fate and not repine; Yet with a song he cheers the gloom That hangs around his living tomb. Shame to his friends!--the king remains Two years unransomed and in chains.

Now let them know, my brave barons, My English, Normans, and Gascons, Not one liege-man so poor have I, That I would not his freedom buy. I'll not reproach their noble line, Though chains and dungeon still are mine.

The dead,--nor friends nor kin have they! Nor friends nor kin my ransom pay! My wrongs afflict me--yet far more For faithless friends my heart is sore. Oh, what a blot upon their name, If I should perish thus in shame!

Nor is it strange I suffer pain When sacred oaths are thus made vain, And when the king with bloody hands Spreads war and pillage through my lands. One only solace now remains-- I soon shall burst these servile chains.

Ye troubadours and friends of mine, Brave Chail and noble Pensauvine, Go tell my rivals, in your song, This heart hath never done them wrong. He infamy--not glory--gains, Who strikes a monarch in his chains!

Written by Richard I. while prisoner in Germany.

(From SPOFFORD'S Library of Historic Character and Famous Events.)

THE LAST CRUSADER

Slowly The Last Crusader eyed The towers, the mount, the stream, the plain, And thought of those whose blood had dyed The earth with crimson streams in vain!

He thought of that sublime array, The hosts, that over land and deep The hermit marshall'd on their way, To see those towers, and halt to weep!

Resign'd the loved, familiar lands, O'er burning wastes the cross to bear, And rescue from the Paynim's hands No empire save a sepulchre!

And vain the hope, and vain the loss, And vain the famine and the strife; In vain the faith that bore the cross, The valour prodigal of life.

And vain was Richard's lion-soul, And guileless Godfrey's patient mind-- Like waves on shore, they reach'd the goal, To die, and leave no trace behind!

"O God!" The Last Crusader cried, "And art Thou careless of Thine own? For us Thy Son in Salem died, And Salem is the scoffer's throne!

"And shall we leave, from age to age, To godless hands the holy tomb? Against Thy saints the heathen rage-- Launch forth Thy lightnings, and consume!"

Swift as he spoke, before his sight A form flashed, white-robed, from above; All Heaven was in those looks of light, But Heaven, whose native air is love.

"Alas!" the solemn vision said, "Thy God is of the shield and spear-- To bless the quick and raise the dead, The Saviour-God descended here!