Berengaria, such as we have described her, knew well--what woman
knows not?--her own road to victory. After a hurried glance of
undisguised and unaffected terror at the ghastly companion of her
husband's secret counsels, she rushed at once to the side of
Richard's couch, dropped on her knees, flung her mantle from her
shoulders, showing, as they hung down at their full length, her
beautiful golden tresses, and while her countenance seemed like
the sun bursting through a cloud, yet bearing on its pallid front
traces that its splendours have been obscured, she seized upon
the right hand of the King, which, as he assumed his wonted
posture, had been employed in dragging the covering of his couch,
and gradually pulling it to her with a force which was resisted,
though but faintly, she possessed herself of that arm, the prop
of Christendom and the dread of Heathenesse, and imprisoning its
strength in both her little fairy hands, she bent upon it her
brow, and united to it her lips.
"What needs this, Berengaria?" said Richard, his head still
averted, but his hand remaining under her control.
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