While King Richard was in Sicily, there
had been trouble in his dominions at home;
one of the bishops whom he had left in charge
thereof arresting the other, and making, in his
pride and ambition, as great a show as if he
were King himself. But, the King hearing of
it at Messina, and appointing a new Regency,
this LONGCHAMP (for that was his name) had
fled to France in a woman's dress, and had
there been encouraged and supported by the
French King. With all these causes of
offence against Philip in his mind, King
Richard had no sooner been welcomed home
by his enthusiastic subjects with great display
and splendor, and rejoicing, and had no sooner
been crowned afresh at Winchester, than he
resolved to show the French King that the
Devil was unchained indeed, and made war
against him with great fury.

There was fresh trouble at home about
this time, arising out of the discontents
of the poor people, who complained that
they were far more heavily taxed than the
rich, and who found a spirited champion in
WILLIAM FITZ-OSBERT, nicknamed LONG-
BEARD. He became the leader of a secret
society, comprising fifty thousand men; was
taken by surprise; stabbed the citizen who
first laid hands upon him; and retreated,
bravely fighting, to a church, which he
maintained four days, until he was dislodged
by fire and run through the body as he
came out. He was not killed, though;
for he was dragged at the tail of a
horse, half-dead, to Smithfield, and there
hanged. This was long a favorite remedy
for silencing the peoples' advocates; but as
we go on with this history, I fancy we shall
find them difficult to make an end of, for
all that.

The war, delayed occasionally by a truce,
was still in progress when a certain Lord
named VIDOMAR, Viscount of Limoges,
chanced to find in his ground a treasure
of ancient coins. As the King's vassal, he
sent his sovereign half of it; but the King
claimed the whole. The lord refused to yield
the whole. The King besieged the lord in his
castle, swore that he would take the castle by
storm, and hang every man of its defenders
on the battlements.

There was a strange old song in that part
of the country, to the effect that in Limoges
an arrow would be made by which King
Richard would die. It may be that BERTRAND
DE GOURDON, a young man who was one of
the defenders of the castle, had often sung it
or heard it sung, of a winter night, and
remembered it when he saw, from his post
upon the ramparts, the King attended only
by his chief officer, riding below the walls,
surveying the place. He drew an arrow to
the head, took steady aim, said between his
teeth, "Now I pray God speed thee well!"
discharged it, and struck the King in the left
shoulder.

Although, the wound was not at first
considered dangerous, it was severe enough to
cause the King to retire to his tent, and
direct the assault to be made without him.
The castle was taken, and every man of
its defenders was hanged, as the King
had sworn they should be, except Bertrand
de Gourdon, who was reserved until the
royal pleasure respecting him should be
known.

By that time, unskilful treatment had made
the wound mortal, and the King knew that
he was dying. He directed Bertrand to be
brought into his tent. The young man was
brought there, heavily chained. King Richard
looked at him steadily. He looked, as steadily,
at the King.

"Knave!" said King Richard. "What
have I done to thee that thou shouldest take
my life?"

"What hast thou done to me ?" replied the
young man. "With thine own hands thou hast
killed my father and my two brothers.
Myself thou wouldest have hanged. Let me die,
now, by any torture that thou wilt. My
comfort is, that no torture can save Thee.
Thou too must die; and, through me, the world
is quit of thee!"

Again the King looked at the young
man steadily. Again the young man looked
steadily at him. Perhaps some remembrance
of his generous enemy Saladin, who was not
a Christian, came into the mind of the dying
King.

"Youth!" he said, "I forgive thee. Go
unhurt!"

Then, turning to the chief officer who had
been riding in his company when he received
the wound, King Richard said:

"Take off his chains, give him a hundred
shillings, and let him depart."

He sunk down on his couch, and a dark
mist seemed in his weakened eyes to fill the
tent wherein he had so often rested, and he
died. His age was forty-two; he had reigned
ten years. His last command was not obeyed,
for the chief officer flayed Bertrand de Gourdon
alive, and hanged him.

There is an old tune yet known—a sorrowful
air will sometimes outlive many generations
of strong men, and even last longer than
battle-axes with twenty pounds of steel in
the head—by which this King is said to have
been discovered in his captivity. BLONDEL, a
favourite Minstrel of King Richard, as the
story relates, faithfully seeking his Royal
master, went singing it outside the gloomy
walls of many foreign fortresses and prisons,
until at last he heard it echoed from within
a dungeon and knew the voice, and cried out
in an ecstacy, "O Richard! O my King!"
You may believe it if you like; it would be
easy to believe worse things. Richard was
himself a Minstrel and a Poet. If he had
not been a Prince too, he might have been a
better man perhaps, and might have gone out
of the world with less bloodshed and waste of
life to answer for.