Before the shut doors of the abbey was Count John, very splendid in a purple cloak, his crown of a count upon his yellow hair.

He stood like a king among his peers, but flushed and restless, twiddling his fingers as kings do not twiddle theirs.
Irresolution kept him where he was until Richard had topped the first flight of steps.

But then he came down to meet him in too much of a hurry, tripping, blundering the degrees, nodding and poking his head, with hands stretched out and body bent, like his who supplicates what he does not deserve.
'Hail, King of England, O hail!' he said, wheedling, royally vested, royally above, yet grovelling there to the prince below him.

King Richard stopped with his foot on the next step, and let the Count come down.
'How lies he ?' were his first words; the other's face grew fearful.
'Eh, I know not,' he said, shuddering.

'I have not seen him.' Now, he must have been in Fontevrault for a day or more.
'Why not ?' asked Richard; and John stretched out his arms again.
'Oh, brother, I waited for you!' he cried, then added lower, 'I could not face him alone.' This was perfectly evident, or he would never have said it.
'Pish!' said King Richard, that is no way to mend matters.