When Richard with a cry snatched her up, she lay weeping like a lost child in his arms.
He laid her on the bed, worn frail by the strife she had endured; she had no strength to open her eyes, but moved her lips to thank him for his pains.

At first she turned her head from side to side, seeking a cool place on the pillow; later she fell into a heavy, drugged sleep.

He watched her till it was nearly light, brooding over her unconscious face.

No thoughts of a king were his, I think; but once more he lapped them in that young girl's bosom, and let them sway, ebb and flow, with it.
On the flow, great with her theme, he saw her inspired, standing with her torch of flame to point his road.

A splintry way leads to the Cross, where even kings consecrate must tear their feet.