d oaf of a Welshman, Owen Tudor there; while dames
and demoiselles, tire-women and all, are as near akin as may be to Sir
Gawain's loathly lady.'

'Not at least the fair Luxemburg. Did not I see her stately mien?'

'She is none of the Queen's, and moreover she stands aloof, so that the
women forgive her gifts! There is that cough of Harry's again! He is
the shadow of the man he was; I would I knew if this were the step-dame's
doing.'

'Nay, John, when you talk to me of Harry's cough, and of night-watches
and flooded camps, I hearken; but when your wits run wool-gathering after
that poor woman, making waxen images stuck full--'

'You are in the right on't, James,' said Henry, who had come up to them
while he was speaking. 'John will never get sorceries out of his head. I
have thought it over, and will not be led into oppressing my father's
widow any more. I cannot spend this Pentecost cheerily till I know she
is set free and restored to her manors; and I shall write to Humfrey and
the Council to that effect.'

And as John shrugged his shoulders, Henry gaily added: 'Thou seest what
comes of a winter spent with this unbeliever Jamie; and truly, I found
the thought of unright to my father's widow was a worse pin in my heart
than ever she is like to thrust there.'

Thus then it was, that in the overflowing joy and good-will of his heart,
and mayhap with the presentiment which rendered him willing to be at
peace with all his kindred, Henry forgave and released his step-mother,
Joan of Navarre, whom common rumour termed the Witch Queen, and whom he
had certainly little reason to love, whether it were true or not that she
had attempted to weave spells against him. In fact, there were few of
the new-comers from England who did not, like Bedford, impute the
transparency of Henry's hands, and the hollowness of his brightly-tinted
cheek, to some form of sorcery.

Meantime, Esclairmonde de Luxemburg, more beautiful than ever under a
still simpler dress, had greeted Malcolm with her wonted kindness;
adding, with a smile, that he was so much grown and embrowned that she
should not have known him but for the sweet Scottish voice which he, like
his king, possessed.

'You do me too much grace in commending aught that is mine, madame,' said
Malcolm, with an attempt at the assurance he believed himself to have
acquired; but he could only finish by faltering and blushing. There was
a power of repression about Esclairmonde t