"
"Madam, we have," replied Montferrat. "And if your Grace will but let
me have the man, I will do him much honour for your Highness's sake."
"He is no vassal of mine," Eleanor said. "He is a poor English
gentleman, cheated of his lands, a friend of young Henry Plantagenet."
"The friend of a boy!" The Count laughed lightly.
But Eleanor grew thoughtful on a sudden, for beyond her rare beauty and
her splendid youth, and within her world of impatient passion, there
were wisdom and knowledge of men.
"A boy? Yes, he may be fourteen years old, not more. But there are boys
who are not children, even in their cradles, and there are men who are
nothing else--their swaddling-clothes outgrown, and their milk teeth
cast, but not their whimpering and fretting."
The nobles were silent, for she spoke over-boldly and meant the King,
as they knew.
"As for this Englishman," she continued after an instant's pause, "he
is not mine to give you, my lord Count. And as for doing him honour for
his brave deed, though I would gladly please you, I should be loth to
let you do my duty for your pleasure."
She smiled again very graciously, for she was glad that men should
praise Gilbert Warde to her; and it was strangely pleasant to think
that no one guessed half of what she would give him if he would take
it. For among the nobles there were great lords, goodly men and young,
who dreamed of her fair face, but would not have dared to lift up their
eyes to her.
So she passed out, with her knights behind her, and most of the lords
and barons followed her at a distance, leaving the King within.
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