th, but penitence and life; that love, which yet will bring thee
forth and bless this land in thee. My son, be comforted; His mercy is
yet greater than thy sin."

"And blest art thou, my father, for these _blessed_ words; a messenger
in truth thou art of peace and love; and oh, if prayers and penitence
avail, if sore temptation may be pleaded, I shall, I shall be pardoned.
Yet would I give my dearest hopes of life, of fame, of all--save
Scotland's freedom--that this evil had not chanced; that blood, his
blood--base traitor as he was--was not upon my hand."

"And can it be thou art such craven, Robert, as to repent a Comyn's
death--a Comyn, and a traitor--e'en though his dastard blood be on thy
hand?--bah! An' such deeds weigh heavy on thy mind, a friar's cowl were
better suited to thy brow than Scotland's diadem."

The speaker was a tall, powerful man, somewhat younger in appearance
than the king, but with an expression of fierceness and haughty pride,
contrasting powerfully with the benevolent and native dignity which so
characterized the Bruce. His voice was as harsh as his manner was
abrupt; yet that he was brave, nay, rash in his unthinking daring, a
very transient glance would suffice to discover.

"I forgive thee thine undeserved taunt, Edward," answered the king,
calmly, though the hot blood rushed up to his cheek and brow. "I trust,
ere long, to prove thy words are as idle as the mood which prompted
them. I feel not that repentance cools the patriot fire which urges me
to strike for Scotland's weal--that sorrow for a hated crime unfits me
for a warrior. I would not Comyn lived, but that he had met a traitor's
fate by other hands than mine; been judged--condemned, as his black
treachery called for; even for our country's sake, it had been better
thus."

"Thou art over-scrupulous, my liege and brother, and I too hasty,"
replied Sir Edward Bruce, in the same bold, careless tone. "Yet beshrew
me, but I think that in these times a sudden blow and hasty fate the
only judgment for a traitor. The miscreant were too richly honored, that
by thy royal hand he fell."

"My son, my son, I pray thee, peace," urged the abbot, in accents of
calm, yet grave authority. "As minister of heaven, I may not list such
words. Bend not thy brow in wrath, clad as thou art in mail, in youthful
might; yet in my Maker's cause this withered frame is stronger yet than
thou art. Enough of that which hath been. Thy sovereign spoke in lowly