uade the Queen,
Esclairmonde spent most of her time in a chamber apart from the chatter
of Jaqueline's little court, where she was weaving, in the delicate point-
lace work she had learnt in her Flemish convent, an exquisite robe, such
as were worn by priests at Mass. She seldom worked, save for the poor;
but she longed to do some honour to the one man who would have promoted
her nearly vanished scheme, and this work she trusted to offer for a
vestment to be used at his burial Mass. Many a cherished plan was
resigned, many an act of self-negation uttered, as she bent over the
dainty web; many an entreaty breathed, that her moment's wandering of
fancy might not be reckoned against her, but that she might be aided to
keep the promise of her infancy, and devote herself undivided to the
direct service of God and of His poor, be it in ever so humble a station.

Here she sat alone, when steps approached, the door opened, and of all
people he stood before her whom she least wished to see, the young Lord
of Glenuskie.

Amazed as she was, she betrayed no confusion, and merely rose, saying
quietly, 'This is an error. I will show you Madame's apartment.'

But Malcolm, who had begun by looking far more confused than she, cried
earnestly, 'One moment, lady. I came not willingly; the Countess sent
for me to her. But since I am here--listen while Heaven gives me
strength to say it--I will trouble you never again. I am come to a
better mind. Oh, forgive me!'

'What are you here then for, Sir?' said Esclairmonde, with the same
defensive dignity.

'My king sent me, against my will, on a mission to the Queen,' panted
Malcolm. 'I am forced to wait here; or, lady, I should have been this
day doing penance for my pursuit of you. Verily I am a penitent. Mayhap
Heaven will forgive me, if you will.'

'If I understand you aright, it is well,' said Esclairmonde, still
gravely and doubtfully.

'It is so indeed,' protested Malcolm, with a terrible wrench to his
heart, yet a sensation of freeing his conscience. 'Fear me no longer
now. After that which I saw at Vincennes, I know what it is to be on the
straight path, and--oh! what it is to have fallen from it. How could I
dream of dragging you down to be with one so unworthy, becoming more
worthless each day? Lady, if I never see you more, pardon me, pray for
me, as a saint for a poor outcast on earth!'

'Hush,' said Esclairmonde; 'I am no saint--only a maiden pledged. But,
S