Katharine raised her
eyes with I know not what lingering hope; but it was he, a young Zeus
now, triumphant and uneager. In his helmet in place of a plume he wore
a fox-brush spangled with jewels.
These six entered the tent pitched for the conference--the hanging of
blue velvet embroidered with fleurs-de-lys of gold blurred before the
girl's eyes,--and there the Earl of Warwick embarked upon a sea of
rhetoric. His French was indifferent, his periods were interminable,
and his demands exorbitant; in brief, the King of England wanted
Katharine and most of France, with a reversion at the French King's
death of the entire kingdom. Meanwhile Sire Henry sat in silence, his
eyes glowing.
"I have come," he said, under cover of Warwick's oratory--"I have come
again, my lady."
Katharine's gaze flickered over him. "Liar!" she said, very softly.
"Has God no thunders remaining in His armory that this vile thief
still goes unblasted? Would you steal love as well as kingdoms?"
His ruddy face was now white. "I love you, Katharine."
"Yes," she answered, "for I am your pretext.
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