Richard stretched his long arms, his clenched fists to the dumb sky.

'Have I bent the knee to good issues or not?
Have I abased my head?
O clement prince! O judge in Israel! O father of kings! Hear now a parable of the Prodigal: Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and thou art no more worthy to be called my father.

O glutton! O filching dog!' 'By the torch of the Gospel, Count Richard, what I sang is true,' said Bertran, still tensely grinning, and now also wringing at his hang-nails.

Richard, checked by the voice, turned blazing upon him.
'Why, thou school-boy rhymester, that is the only merit thou hast, and that not thine own! Thy japes are nought, thy tragics the mewing of cats; but thy news, fellow, thy news is too rich matter for thy sewer of a throat.

Tragic?
No, it is worse: it is comic, O heaven! Heed you now--' In his bitter shame he began pantomiming with his fingers:--'Here are two persons, father by the Grace of God, son by the grace of the father.