she paid for her passage with some of her
jewels, and sailed away. Well! The merchant
was sitting in his counting-house in
London one day, when he heard a great noise
in the street, and presently Richard came
running in from the warehouse, with his eyes
wide open and his breath almost gone, saying,
"Master, Master, here is the Saracen lady!"
The merchant thought he was mad; but he
said, "No, master! As I live, the Saracen
lady is going up and down the city, calling,
Gilbert! Gilbert!" Then, he took the
merchant by the sleeve, and pointed out at
window, and there they saw her among
the gables and water-spouts of the dark dirty
street, in her foreign dress, so forlorn, surrounded
by a wondering crowd, and passing
slowly along, calling Gilbert, Gilbert! When
the merchant saw her, and thought of the
tenderness she had shown him in his captivity,
and of her constancy, his heart was
moved, and he ran down into the street;
and she saw him coming, and with a great
cry fainted in his arms. They were married
without loss of time, and Richard (who was
an excellent man) danced with joy the whole
day of the wedding; and they all lived happy
ever afterwards.

This merchant and this Saracen lady had
one son, THOMAS À BECKET. He it was who
became the Favorite of King Henry the
Second.

He had risen to be Chancellor, when the
King thought of making him Archbishop. He
was clever, gay, well-educated, brave; had
fought in several battles in France; had
defeated a French knight in single combat,
and brought his horse away as a token of the
victory. He lived in a noble palace, he
was the tutor of the young prince Henry, he
was served by one hundred and forty knights,
his riches were immense. The King once
sent him as his ambassador to France; and
the French people, beholding in what state
he travelled, cried out in the streets, "How
splendid must the King of England be, when
this is only the Chancellor!" They had good
reason to wonder at the magnificence of
Thomas à Becket, for, when he entered a
French town, his procession was headed by
two hundred and fifty singing boys; then,
came his hounds in couples; then, eight
wagons, each drawn by five horses driven by
five drivers: two of the wagons filled with
strong ale to be given away to the people:
four, with his gold and silver plate and stately
clothes: two, with the dresses of his numerous
servants. Then, came twelve horses, each
with a monkey on his back; then, a train of
people bearing shields and leading fine war-
horses splendidly equipped; then, falconers
with hawks upon their wrists; then, a host
of knights, and gentlemen, and priests; then,
the Chancellor with his brilliant garments
flashing in the sun, and all the people capering
and shouting with delight. The King was
well pleased with all this, thinking that it only
made himself the more magnificent to have so
magnificent a favorite; but he sometimes
jested with the Chancellor upon his splendor
too. Once, when they were riding together
through the streets of London in hard winter
weather, they saw a shivering old man in rags.
"Look at the poor object!" said the King.
"Would it not be a charitable act to give that
aged man a comfortable warm cloak?"
"Undoubtedly it would," said Thomas à Becket,
"and you do well, Sir, to think of such
Christian duties." "Come!" cried the King,
"then give him your cloak!" It was made
of rich crimson trimmed with ermine. The
King tried to pull it off, the Chancellor tried
to keep it on, both were near rolling from
their saddles in the mud, when the Chancellor
submitted, and the King gave the cloak to
the old beggar—much to the beggar's
astonishment, and much to the merriment of
all the courtiers in attendance. For, courtiers
are not only eager to laugh when the King
laughs, but they really do enjoy a laugh
against a Favorite.

"I will make," thought King Henry the
Second, "this Chancellor of mine, Thomas
à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. He will
then be the head of the Church, and, being
devoted to me, will help me to correct the
Church. He has always upheld my power
against the power of the clergy, and once
publicly told some bishops (I remember), that
men of the Church were equally bound to me
with men of the sword. Thomas à Becket is
the man, of all other men in England, to help
me in my great design." So the King, regardless
of all objection, either that he was a
fighting-man, or a lavish man, or a courtly
man, or a man of pleasure, or anything but a
likely man for the office, made him Archbishop
accordingly.

Now, Thomas à Becket was proud and loved
to be famous. He was already famous for the
pomp of his life, for his riches, his gold and
silver plate, his wagons, horses, and attendants.
He could do no more in that way than
he had done, and being tired of that kind of
fame, (which is a very poor one,) he longed
to have his name celebrated for something
else. Nothing, he knew, would render him
so famous in the world, as the setting of his
utmost power and ability against the utmost
power and ability of the King. He resolved
with the whole strength of his mind to
do it.

He may have had some secret grudge
against the King besides. The King may have
offended his proud spirit at some time or other,
for anything I know. I think it likely, because
it is a common thing for Kings, Princes, and
other great people, to try the tempers of their
favorites rather severely. Even the little
affair of the crimson cloak must have been
anything but a pleasant one to a haughty man.
Thomas à Becket knew better than any one
in England what the King expected of him.
In all his sumptuous life, he had never yet