Here is a story that has lain dormant for seven hundred years. At first itwas suppressed by one of the Plantagenet kings of England. Later it wasforgotten. I happened to dig it up by accident. The accident being therelationship of my wife's cousin to a certain Father Superior in a veryancient monastery in Europe.

He let me pry about among a quantity of mildewed and musty manuscripts andI came across this. It is very interesting -- partially since it is a bitof hitherto unrecorded history, but principally from the fact that itrecords the story of a most remarkable revenge and the adventurous life ofits innocent victim -- Richard, the lost prince of England.

In the retelling of it, I have left out most of the history. Whatinterested me was the unique character about whom the tale revolves -- thevisored horseman who -- but let us wait until we get to him.

It all happened in the thirteenth century, and while it was happening, itshook England from north to south and from east to west; and reached acrossthe channel and shook France. It started, directly, in the London palaceof Henry III, and was the result of a quarrel between the King and hispowerful brother-in-law, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.

Never mind the quarrel, that's history, and you can read all about it atyour leisure. But on this June day in the year of our Lord 1243, Henry soforgot himself as to very unjustly accuse De Montfort of treason in thepresence of a number of the King's gentlemen.

De Montfort paled. He was a tall, handsome man, and when he drew himselfto his full height and turned those gray eyes on the victim of his wrath,as he did that day, he was very imposing. A power in England, second onlyto the King himself, and with the heart of a lion in him, he answered theKing as no other man in all England would have dared answer him.

"My Lord King," he cried, "that you be my Lord King alone prevents Simon deMontfort from demanding satisfaction for such a gross insult. That youtake advantage of your kingship to say what you would never dare say wereyou not king, brands me not a traitor, though it does brand you a coward."

Tense silence fell upon the little company of lords and courtiers as theseawful words fell from the lips of a subject, addressed to his king. Theywere horrified, for De Montfort's bold challenge was to them but littleshort of sacrilege.

Henry, flushing in mortification and anger, rose to advance upon DeMontfort, but suddenly recollecting the power which he represented, hethought better of whatever action he contemplated and, with a haughtysneer, turned to his courtiers.

"Come, my gentlemen," he said, "methought that we were to have a turn withthe foils this morning. Already it waxeth late. Come, DeFulm ! Come,Leybourn !" and the King left the apartment followed by his gentlemen, allof whom had drawn away from the Earl of Leicester when it became apparentthat the royal displeasure was strong against him. As the arras fellbehind the departing King, De Montfort shrugged his broad shoulders, andturning, left the apartment by another door.

When the King, with his gentlemen, entered the armory he was still smartingfrom the humiliation of De Montfort's reproaches, and as he laid aside hissurcoat and plumed hat to take the foils with De Fulm, his eyes alighted onthe master of fence, Sir Jules de Vac, who was advancing with the King'sfoil and helmet. Henry felt in no mood for fencing with De Fulm, who, likethe other sycophants that surrounded him, always allowed the King easily tobest him in every encounter.

De Vac he knew to be too jealous of his fame as a swordsman to permithimself to be overcome by aught but superior skill, and this day Henry feltthat he could best the devil himself.

The armory was a great room on the main floor of the palace, off the guardroom. It was built in a small wing of the building so that it had lightfrom three sides. In charge of it was the lean, grizzled, leather-skinnedSir Jules de Vac, and it was he whom Henry commanded to face him in mimiccombat with the foils, for the King wished to go with hammer and tongs atsomeone to vent his suppressed rage.

So he let De Vac assume to his mind's eye the person of the hated DeMontfort, and it followed that De Vac was nearly surprised into an earlyand mortifying defeat by the King's sudden and clever attack.

Henry III had always been accounted a good swordsman, but that day he quiteoutdid himself and, in his imagination, was about to run the pseudo DeMontfort through the heart, to the wild acclaim of his audience. For thisfell purpose he had backed the astounded De Vac twice around the hall when,with a clever feint, and backward step, the master of fence drew the Kinginto the position he wanted him, and with the suddenness of lightning, alittle twist of his foil sent Henry's weapon clanging across the floor ofthe armory.

For an instant, the King stood as tense and white as though the hand ofdeath had reached out and touched his heart with its icy fingers. Theepisode meant more to him than being bested in play by the best swordsmanin England -- for that surely was no disgrace -- to Henry it seemedprophetic of the outcome of a future struggle when he should stand face toface with the real De Montfort; and then, seeing in De Vac only thecreature of his imagination with which he had vested the likeness of hispowerful brother-in-law, Henry did what he should like to have done to thereal Leicester. Drawing off his gauntlet he advanced close to De Vac.

"Dog !" he hissed, and struck the master of fence a stinging blow acrossthe face, and spat upon him. Then he turned on his heel and strode fromthe armory.

De Vac had grown old in the service of the kings of England, but he hatedall things English and all Englishmen. The dead King John, though hated byall others, he had loved, but with the dead King's bones De Vac's loyaltyto the house he served had been buried in the Cathedral of Worcester.

During the years he had served as master of fence at the English Court, thesons of royalty had learned to thrust and parry and cut as only De Vaccould teach the art, and he had been as conscientious in the discharge ofhis duties as he had been in his unswerving hatred and contempt for hispupils.

And now the English King had put upon him such an insult as might only bewiped out by blood.

As the blow fell, the wiry Frenchman clicked his heels together, andthrowing down his foil, he stood erect and rigid as a marble statue beforehis master. White and livid was his tense drawn face, but he spoke noword.

He might have struck the King, but then there would have been left to himno alternative save death by his own hand; for a king may not fight with alesser mortal, and he who strikes a king may not live -- the king's honormust be satisfied.

Had a French king struck him, De Vac would have struck back, and gloried inthe fate which permitted him to die for the honor of France; but an EnglishKing -- pooh ! a dog; and who would die for a dog ? No, De Vac would findother means of satisfying his wounded pride. He would revel in revengeagainst this man for whom he felt no loyalty. If possible, he would harmthe whole of England if he could, but he would bide his time. He couldafford to wait for his opportunity if, by waiting, he could encompass amore terrible revenge.

De Vac had been born in Paris, the son of a French officer reputed the bestswordsman in France. The son had followed closely in the footsteps of hisfather until, on the latter's death, he could easily claim the title of hissire. How he had left France and entered the service of John of England isnot of this story. All the bearing that the life of Jules de Vac has uponthe history of England hinges upon but two of his many attributes -- hiswonderful swordsmanship and his fearful hatred for his adopted country.