is penance was still unsaid, his absolution not yet
pronounced.

CHAPTER XV: THE TRUST

James of Scotland and John of Bedford sat together in the twilight of a
long and weary day, spent by the one in standing like a statue at the
head of his deceased friend as a part of the pageant of the
lying-in-state in the chapel, whither multitudes had crowded throughout
the day to see the 'mighty victor, mighty lord, lie low on his funeral
couch;' the nobles gazing with a certain silent and bitter satisfaction
at him who had not only broken the pride of their country, but had with
his iron hand repressed their own private exactions, while the poor and
the peasants openly bewailed him as the father and the friend who had
stood between them and their harsh feudal lords. By the other, the hours
had passed in the press of toil and perplexity that had fallen on him as
the yet unaccredited representative of English power in France, and in
writing letters to those persons at home from whom he must derive his
authority. The hour of rest and relaxation was welcome to both, though
they chiefly spent it each leaning back in his chair in silence.

'Your messenger is not come back,' said Bedford, presently, rousing
himself.

'It may have been no easy task,' replied James, not however without
uneasiness.

'I would,' said Bedford, presently, 'that I had writ the matter straight
to Robsart. The lad is weak, and may be tampered with.'

'He knows that I have pledged my honour for him,' said James.

Bedford's thin lips moved at the corners.

'Nay,' said James, not angrily, 'the youth hath in some measure
disappointed me. The evil in him shot forth faster than the good under
this camp life; but methinks there is in him a certain rare quality of
soul that I loved him for at the first, and though it hath lain asleep
all this time, yet what he hath now seen seemed to me about to work the
change in him.'

'It may be so,' said Bedford; 'and yet I would I had not consented to his
going where that woman of Hainault might work on him to fret the Lady
Esclairmonde.'

James started somewhat as he remembered overruling this objection of
Malcolm's own making. 'She cannot have the insolence,' he said.

At that moment a hasty step approached; the door was opened with scant
ceremony, and Ralf Percy, covered from head to foot with blood, hurried
in breathless and panting.

'My lord Duke, your license! Here is Malcolm Stewart set upon in