The Caged Lion

The ordering of the feast fell to Catherine and her train; and its splendours on successive days had their full development, greatly to the constraint and weariness, among others, of Esclairmonde, who was always assigned to Malcolm Stewart, and throughout these long days had to be constantly repressing him; not that he often durst make her any direct compliment, for he was usually quelled into anxious wistful silence, and merely eyed her earnestly, paying her every attention in his power.  And such a silent tedious meal was sure to be remarked, either with laughing rudeness by Countess Jaqueline, or with severe reproof by the Bishop of Thérouenne, both of whom assured her that she had better lay aside her airs, and resign herself in good part, for there was no escape for her.

One day, however, when the feast was at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, and there were some slight differences in the order of the guests, the Duke of Bedford put himself forward as the Lady Esclairmonde’s cavalier, so much to her relief, that her countenance, usually so guarded, relaxed into the bright, sweet smile of cheerfulness that was most natural to her.  Isolated as the pairs at the table were, and with music braying in a gallery just above, there was plenty of scope for conversation; and once again Esclairmonde was talking freely of the matters regarding the distress in Paris, that Bedford had consulted her upon before he became so engrossed with his brother’s affairs, or she so beset by her persecutors.

Towards the evening, when the feast had still some mortal hours to last, there fell a silence on the Duke; and at length, when the music was at the loudest, he said ‘Lady, I have watched for this moment.  You are persecuted.  Look not on me as one of your persecutors; but if no other refuge be open to you, here is one who might know better how to esteem you than that malapert young Scot.’

‘How, Sir?’ exclaimed Esclairmonde, amazed at these words from the woman-hating Bedford.

‘Make no sudden reply,’ said John.  ‘I had never thought of you save as one consecrate, till, when I see you like to be hunted down into the hands of yon silly lad, I cannot but thrust between.  My brother would willingly consent; and, if I may but win your leave to love you, lady, it will be with a heart that has yearned to no other woman.’

He spoke low and steadily, looking straight before him, with no visible emotion, save a little quiver in the last sentence, a slight dilating of the delicately cut nostril; and then he was silent, until, having recovered the self-restraint that had been failing him, he prevented the words she was trying to form by saying, ‘Not in haste, lady.  There is time yet before you to bethink yourself whether you can be free in will and conscience.  If so, I will bear you through all.’

How invitingly the words fell on the lonely heart, so long left to fight its own battles!  There came for the first time the full sense of what life might be, the shielding tenderness, the sure reliance, the pure affection, such as she saw Henry lavish on the shallow Queen, but which she could meet and requite in John.  The brutal Boëmond, the childish Malcolm, had aroused no feeling in her but dislike or pity, and to them a convent was infinitely preferable; but Bedford—the religious, manly, brave, unselfish Bedford—opened to her the view of all that could content a high-souled woman’s heart, backed, moreover, by the wonder of having been the first to touch such a spirit.

It would not have been a mésalliance.  Her family was one of the grandest of the Netherlands; the saintly Emperor, Henry of Luxemburg, was her ancestor; and Bedford’s proposal was not a condescension such as to rouse her sense of dignity.  His rank did not strike her as did his lofty stainless character; the like of which she had never known to exist in the world of active life till she saw the brothers of England, who came more near to the armed saints and holy warriors of Church legend than her fancy had thought mortal man could do, bred as she had been in the sensual, violent, and glittering Burgundy of the fifteenth century.  In truth, as Malcolm had thought the cloister the only refuge from the harshness and barbarism of Scotland, so Esclairmonde had thought piety and purity to be found nowhere else; and both had found the Court of Henry V. an infinitely better world than they had supposed possible; but, until the present moment, Esclairmonde had never felt the slightest call to take a permanent place there.  Now however the cloister, even if it were open to her, presented a gloomy, cheerless life of austerity, in comparison with human affection and matronly duty.  And most vivid of all at the moment was the desire to awaken the tender sweetness that slept in those steady gray eyes, to see the grave, wise visage gleam with smiling affection, and to rest in having one to take thought for her, and finish this long term of tossing about and self-defence.  Was not the patience with which he kept his eyes away from her already a proof of his consideration and delicate kindness?

But deep in Esclairmonde’s soul lay the sense that her dedication was sacred, and her power over herself gone.  She had always felt a wife’s allegiance due to Him whom she received as her spiritual Spouse; and though the sense at this moment only brought her disappointment and self-reproach, her will was loyal.  The bond was cutting into her very flesh, but she never even thought of breaking it; and all she waited for was the power of restraining her grateful tears.

In this she was assisted by observing that Bedford’s attention had been attracted towards his brother, who was looking wan and weary, scarcely tasting what was set before him; and, after fitfully trying to converse with Marguerite of Burgundy, at last had taken advantage of an endless harangue from all the Virtues, and had dropped asleep.  The Lady Anne was seen making a sign to her sister not to disturb him; and Bedford murmured, with a sigh, ‘There is, for once, a discreet woman.’  Then, as if recalled to a sense of what was passing, he turned on Esclairmonde his full earnest look, saying, ‘You will teach the Queen how he should be cared for.  You will help me.’

‘Sir,’ said Esclairmonde, feeling it most difficult not to falter, ‘this is a great grace, but it cannot be.’

‘Cannot!’ said Bedford, slowly.  ‘You have taken thought?’

‘Sir, it is not the part of a betrothed spouse to take thought.  My vows were renewed of my own free will and it were sacrilege to try to recall them for the first real temptation.’

She spoke steadily, but the effort ached through her whole frame, especially when the last word illumined John Plantagenet’s face with strange sweet light, quenched as his lip trembled, his nostril quivered, his eye even moistened, as he said, ‘It is enough, lady; I will no more vex one who is vexed enough already; and you will so far trust me as to regard me as your protector, if you should be in need?’

‘Indeed I will,’ said Esclairmonde, hardly restraining her tears.

‘That is well,’ said Bedford.  And he neither looked at her nor spoke to her again, till, as he led her away in the procession from the hall, he held her hand fast, and murmured: ‘There then it rests, sweet lady unless, having taken counsel with your own heart, you should change your decree, and consult some holy priest.  If so, make but a sign of the hand, and I am yours; for verily you are the only maiden I could ever have loved.’

She was still in utter confusion, in the chamber where the ladies were cloaking for their return, when her hands were grasped on either side by the two Burgundian princesses.

‘Sweet runaway, we have caught you at last!  Here, into Anne’s chamber.  See you we must!  How is it with you?  Like you the limping Scot better than Boëmond?’ laughed the Dauphiness, her company dignity laid aside for school-girl chatter.

‘If you cannot hold out,’ said Anne, ‘the Scot seems a gentle youth; and, at least, you are quit of Boëmond.’

‘Yes,’ said Marguerite, ‘his last prank was too strong for the Duke: quartering a dozen men-at-arms on a sulky Cambrai weaver till he paid him 2000 crowns.  Besides, it would be well to get the Scottish king for an ally.  Do you know what we two are here for, Clairette?  We are both to be betrothed: one to the handsome captive with the gold locks; the other to your hawk-nosed neighbour, who seemed to have not a word to say.’

‘But,’ said Esclairmonde, replying to the easiest part of the disclosure, ‘the King of Scots is in love with the Demoiselle of Somerset.’

‘What matters that, silly maid?’ said Marguerite ‘he does not displease me; and Anne is welcome to that melancholy duke.’

‘Oh, Lady Anne!’ exclaimed Esclairmonde, ‘if such be your lot, it would be well indeed.’

‘What, the surly brother, of whom Catherine tells such tales!’ continued Marguerite.

‘Credit them not,’ said Esclairmonde.  ‘He never crosses her but when he would open her eyes to his brother’s failing health.’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Marguerite; ‘my lord brother swears that this king will not live a year; and if Catherine have no better luck with her child than poor Michelle, then there will be another good Queen Anne in England.’

‘If so,’ said Esclairmonde, looking at her friend with swimming eyes, ‘she will have the best of husbands—as good as even she deserves!’

Anne held her hand fast, and would have said many tender words on Esclairmonde’s own troubles; but the other ladies were arrayed, and Esclairmonde would not for worlds have been left behind in the Hôtel de Bourgogne.

Privacy was not an attainable luxury, and Esclairmonde could not commune with her throbbing heart, or find peace for her aching head, till night.  This must be a matter unconfided to any, even Alice Montagu.  And while the maiden lay smiling in her quiet sleep, after having fondly told her friend that Sir Richard Nevil had really noticed her new silken kirtle, she knelt on beneath the crucifix, mechanically reciting her prayers, and, as the beads dropped from her fingers, fighting out the fight with her own heart.

Her mind was made up; but her sense of the loss, her craving for the worthy affection which lay within her grasp—these dismayed her.  The life she had sighed for had become a blank; and she passionately detested the obligation that held her back from affection, usefulness, joy, and excellence—not ambition, for the greatest help to her lay in Bedford’s position, his exalted rank, and nearness to the crown.  Indeed, she really dreaded and loathed worldly pomp so much that the temptation would have been greater had he not been a prince.

It was this sense of renunciation that came to her aid.  She had at least a real sacrifice to offer; till now, as she became aware, she had made none.  She folded her hands, and laid her offering to be hallowed by the One all-sufficient Sacrifice.  She offered all those capacities for love that had been newly revealed to her; she offered up the bliss, whose golden dawn she had seen; she tried to tear out the earthliness of her heart and affections by the roots, and lay them on the altar, entreating that, come what might, her spirit might never stray from the Heavenly Spouse of her betrothal.

Therewith came a sense of His perfect sufficiency—of rest, peace, support, ineffable love, that kept her kneeling in a calm, almost ecstatic state, in which common hopes, fears, and affections had melted away.

CHAPTER XI: THE TWO PROMISES

After all, Alice Montagu was married almost privately, and without any preparation.  Tidings came that the Duke of Alençon was besieging Cosne, a city belonging to the Duke of Burgundy, and that instant relief was needed.  The Duke was urgent with Henry to save the place for him, and set off at once to collect his brilliant chivalry; while Henry, rousing at the trumpet-call, declared that nothing ailed him but pageants, sent orders to all his troops to collect from different quarters, and prepared to take the command in person; while reports daily came in of the great muster the Armagnacs were making, as though determined to offer battle.

Salisbury was determined not to abide the chances of the battle without first giving a protector to his little daughter; and therefore, as quietly as if she had been merely going to mass, the Lady Alice was wedded to her Sir Richard Nevil, who treated the affair as the simplest matter of course, and troubled himself with very slight demonstrations of affection.  The wedding took place at Senlis, whither the female part of the Court had accompanied the King, upon the very day of the parting.  No one was present, except one of Sir Richard’s brothers (the whole family numbered twenty-two), his esquire; and on Alice’s side, her father, Esclairmonde, and a few other ladies.

At the last moment, however, the King himself came up, leaning on Warwick’s arm, looking thin, ill, and flushed, but resolved to do honour to his faithful Salisbury, at whose request he had permitted the barony of Montagu to be at once transferred to Nevil, who would thenceforth be called by that title.

After the ceremony, King Henry kissed the gentle bride, placed a costly ring upon her finger, and gave his best and warmest wishes to the newly-married pair.  Little guessed any there present what the sound of Warwick and Salisbury would be in forty years’ time to the babe cradled at Windsor.

As the King passed Esclairmonde, he paused, and said, in an undertone, ‘Dear lady, deem not that I have forgotten your holy purpose; but you understand that there are some who are jealous of any benefit conferred on Paris save from themselves, and whose alliance I may not risk.  But if God be pleased to grant me this battle also, then, with His good pleasure, I shall not be forced to have such respect to persons; and when I return, lady, whether the endowment come from your bounty or no, God helping us, you shall begin the holy work of St. Katharine’s bedeswomen among the poor of Paris.’

But while Henry V., with all his grave sweetness, spoke these words to Esclairmonde de Luxemburg, this was the farewell of Countess Jaqueline of Hainault to Malcolm Stewart:

‘Look here, my languishing swain; never mind her scorn, but win your spurs in the battle that is to be, and then make some excuse to get back again to us before the two Kings, with all their scruples.  Then beshrew me but she shall be yours!  If Monseigneur de Thérouenne and I cannot manage one proud girl, I am not Countess of Hainault!’

This promise sent him away, planning the enjoyment of conquering Esclairmonde’s long resistance, and teaching her where to find happiness.  Should he punish her, by being stern and tyrannical at first? or should his kindness teach her to repent?  When he was a knight, he would be in a condition to assert his authority, he thought; and of knighthood both he and Ralf Percy felt almost certain, in that wholesale dubbing of knights that was wont to be the preliminary of a battle.  To be sure, they had indulged in a good many unlicensed pleasures at Paris—Ralf from sheer reckless love of sport, Malcolm in his endeavour to forget himself, and to be manly; but they had escaped detection, and they knew plenty of young Englishmen, and many more Burgundians and Gascons, who had plunged far deeper into mischief, and thought it no disgrace, but rather held that there was some special dispensation for the benefit of warriors.

Malcolm and Ralf were riding with a party of these young men.  King Henry had consented to make his first day’s journey as far as Corbeil in a litter, since only there he was to meet the larger number of his troops, whom Bedford and Warwick were assembling.  James was riding close beside him, with his immediate attendants; and the two youths, not being needed, had joined their comrades with the advanced guard of the escort.

It was always a fiction maintained by Henry, that he was marching in a friendly country; plunder was strictly forbidden, and everything was to be paid for; but unfortunately, the peasantry on his way never realized this, and the soldiery often took care they should not.  Therefore, when the advanced guard came to the village that had been marked out for their halt, instead of finding provisions and forage to be purchased, they met with only bare walls, and a few stray cats; and while storming and raving between hunger and disappointment, a report came from somewhere that the inhabitants had fled, and driven off their cattle to another village some four miles off, in the woods, on the heights above.  Of course, they must be taught reason.  It was true that the men-at-arms, who were under the command of Sir Christopher Kitson and Sir William Trenton, were obliged to abide where they were, much as Kitson growled at being unable to procure a draught of wine for Trenton, whom he had been nursing for weeks under intermitting fever, caught at Meaux; but the young gentlemen were well pleased to show themselves under no Yorkshireman’s orders, and galloped off en masse to procure refreshment for their horses and themselves, further stimulated by the report that the Armagnacs had left a sick man behind them there, who might be a valuable prisoner.

By and by, a woodland path brought the disorderly party, about forty in number, including their servants and the ruffians who always followed whenever plunder was to be scented, out upon a pretty French village of the better class, built round a green shaded with chestnuts, under which, sure enough, were hay-carts, cows, sheep, and goats, and their owners, taking refuge in a place thought to be out of the track of the invaders.

Here were the malicious defrauders of the hungry warriors.  Down upon them flew the angry foragers.  Soon the pretty tranquil scene was ringing with the oaths of the plundering and the cries of the plundered; the cattle were being driven off, the houses and farm-yards rifled, blood was flowing, and what could not be carried off was burning.  The search for the Armagnac prisoner had, however, relaxed after the first inquiry, and Malcolm, surprised that this had been forgotten, suddenly bethought him of the distinction he should secure by sending a valuable prize to Esclairmonde’s feet.  He seized on an old man who had not been able to fly, and stood trembling and panting in a corner, and demanded where the sick man was.  The old man pointed to a farm-house, round which clouds of smoke were rolling, and Malcolm hurried into it, shouting, ‘Dog of an Armagnac, come out!  Yield, ere thou be burnt!’

No answer; and he dashed forward.  In the lower room was a sight that opened his eyes with horror—no other than the shield of Drummond, with the three wavy lines; ay, and with it the helmet and suit of armour, whereof he knew each buckle and brace!

‘Patie!  Patrick!  Patrick Drummond!’ he wildly shouted, ‘are you there?’

No answer; and seeing through the smoke a stair, he rushed up.  There, in an upper room, on a bed, lay a senseless form, suffocated perhaps by the smoke, but unmistakably his cousin!  He called to him, seized him, shook him, dragged him out of bed, all in vain; there was no sign of animation.  The fire was gaining on the house; Malcolm’s own breath was failing, and his frenzied efforts to carry Patrick’s almost giant form to the stairs were quite unavailing.  Wild with horror, he flew shouting down-stairs to call Halbert, whom he had left with his horse, but neither Halbert nor horse was in sight, nor indeed any of the party.  Not a man was in sight, except a few hurrying far out of reach, as if something had alarmed them.  He wrung his hands in anguish, and was about to make another attempt to drag Patrick down from the already burning house, when suddenly a troop of horse was among the scene of desolation, and at their head King James himself.  Malcolm flew to the King, cutting short his angry exclamation with the cry, ‘Help! help! he will burn!  Patrick!  Patie Drummond!  There!’

James had scarce gathered the sense of the words, ere, leaping from his horse, he bounded up the stairs, through the smoke, amid flakes of burning thatch falling from the roof, groped in the dense clouds of smoke for the senseless weight, and holding the shoulders while Malcolm held the feet, they sped down the stair, and rested not till they had laid him under a chestnut tree, out of reach of the crash of the house, which fell in almost instantly.

‘Does he live?’ gasped Malcolm.

‘He will not,’ said the King, ‘if his nation be known here.  Keep out of his sight!  He must hear only French!’

Remembering how inexorably Henry hung every Scotch prisoner, Malcolm’s heart sank.  This was why no one had sought the prisoner.  A Scot was not available for ransom!  Should he be the murderer of his cousin, Lily’s love?

Meantime James hurriedly explained to Kitson that here was the sick man left by the enemy, summoned Sir Nigel to his side, closed his own visor, and called for water; then hung over the prisoner, anxious to prevent the first word from being broad Scotch.  In the free air, some long sobs showed that Patrick was struggling back to life; and James at once said, ‘Rendez vous, Messire;’ but he neither answered, nor was there meaning in his eyes.  And James perceived that he was bandaged as though for broken ribs, and that his right shoulder was dislocated, and no doubt had been a second time pulled out when Malcolm had grasped him by the arms.  He swooned again at the first attempt to lift him, and a hay-cart having been left in the flight of the marauders, he was laid in it, and covered with the King’s cloak, to be conveyed to Corbeil, where James trusted to secure his life by personal intercession with Henry.  He groaned heavily several times, but never opened his eyes or spoke articulately the whole way; and James and Sir Nigel kept on either side of the cart, ready to address him in French the first moment, having told the English that he was a prisoner of quality, who must be carefully conveyed to King James’s tent at Corbeil.  Malcolm was not allowed to approach, lest he should be recognized; and he rode along in an agony of shame and suspense, with very different feelings towards Patrick than those with which he had of late thought of him, or of his own promises.  If Patrick died through this plundering raid, how should he ever face Lily?

It was nearly night ere they reached Corbeil, where the tents were pitched outside the little town.  James committed his captive to the prudent care of old Baird, bidding him send for a French or Burgundian surgeon, unable to detect the Scottish tongue; and then, taking Malcolm with him, he crossed the square in the centre of the camp to the royal pavilion, opposite to which his own was pitched.

It was a sultry night, and Henry had insisted on sleeping in his tent, declaring himself sick of stone walls; and as they approached his voice could be heard in brief excited sentences, giving orders, and asking for the King of Scots.

‘Here, Sir,’ said James, stopping in where the curtain was looped up, and showed King Henry half sitting, half lying, on a couch of cushions and deer-skins, his eyes full of fire, his thin face flushed with deep colour; Bedford, March, Warwick, and Salisbury in attendance.

‘Ho! you are late!’ said Henry.  ‘Did you come up with the caitiff robbers?’

‘They made off as we rode up.  The village was already burnt.’

‘Who were they?  I hope you hung them on the spot, as I bade,’ continued Henry, coughing between his sentences, and almost in spite of himself, putting his hand to his side.

‘I was delayed.  There was a life to save: a gentleman who lay sick and stifled in a burning house.’

‘And what was it to you,’ cried Henry, angrily, ‘if a dozen rebel Armagnacs were fried alive, when I sent you to hinder my men from growing mere thieves?  Gentleman, forsooth!  One would think it the Dauphin himself; or mayhap Buchan.  Ha! it is a Scot, then!’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said James; ‘Sir Patrick Drummond, a good knight, hurt and helpless, for whom I entreat your grace.’

‘You disobeyed me to spare a Scot!’ burst forth Henry.  ‘You, who call yourself a captain of mine, and who know my will!  He hangs instantly!’

‘Harry, bethink yourself.  This is no captive taken in battle.  He is a sick man, left behind, sorely hurt.’

‘Then wherefore must you be meddling, instead of letting him burn as he deserved, and heeding what you undertook for me?  I will have none of your traitor ruffians here.  Since you have brought him in, the halter for him!—Here, Ralf Percy, tell the Provost-marshal—’

He was interrupted, for James unbuckled his sword, and tendered it to him.

‘King Harry,’ he said gravely, ‘this morning I was your friend and brother-in-arms; now I am your captive.  Hang Patrick Drummond, who aided me at Meaux in saving my honour and such freedom as I have, and I return to any prison you please, and never strike blow for you again.’

‘Take back your sword,’ said Henry.  ‘What folly is this?  You knew that I count not your rebel subjects as prisoners of war.’

‘I did not know that I was saving a defenceless man from the flames to be used like a dog.  I never offered my arm to serve a savage tyrant.’

‘Take your sword!’ reiterated Henry, his passion giving way before James’s steady calmness.  ‘We will look into it to-morrow: but it was no soldierly act to take advantage of my weariness, to let my commands be broken the first day of taking the field, and bring the caitiff here.  We will leave him for the night, I say.  Take up your sword.’

‘Not till I am sure of my liegeman’s life,’ said James.

‘No threats, Sir.  I will make no promise,’ said Henry, haughtily; but the words died away in a racking cough.

And Bedford, laying his hand on James’s arm, said, ‘He is fevered and weary.  Fret him no longer, but take your sword, and get your fellow out of the camp.’

James was too much hurt to make a compromise.  ‘No,’ he said; ‘unless your brother freely spares the life of a man thus taken, I must be his prisoner—but his soldier never!’

He left the tent, followed by Malcolm in an agony of despair and self-reproach.

Henry’s morning decisions were not apt to vary from his evening ones.  There was a terrible implacability about him at times, and he had never ceased to visit his brother of Clarence’s death upon the Scots, on the plea that they were in arms against their king.  Even Bedford obviously thought that the prisoner would be safest out of his reach; and this could hardly be accomplished, since Patrick had been placed in James’s tent, in the very centre of the camp, near the King’s own.  And though Bedford and March might have connived at his being taken away, yet the mass of the soldiery would, if they detected a Scot being smuggled away into the town, have been persuaded that King James was acting treacherously.

Besides, the captive himself proved to be so exhausted, that to transport him any further in his present state would have been almost certainly fatal.  A barber surgeon from Corbeil had been fetched, and was dealing with the injuries, which had apparently been the effect of a fall some days previously, probably when on his way to join the French army at Cosne; and the first fever of these hurts had no doubt been aggravated by the adventures of the day.  At any rate Patrick lay unconscious, or only from time to time groaning or murmuring a few words, sometimes French, sometimes Scotch.

Malcolm would have fallen on his knees by his side, and striven to win a word or a look, but James forcibly withheld him.  ‘If you roused him into loud ravings in our own tongue, all hope of saving him would be gone,’ he said.

‘Shall we?  Oh, can we?’ cried Malcolm, catching at the mere word hope.

‘I only know,’ said the King, ‘that unless we do so by Harry’s good-will, I will never serve under him again.’

‘And if he persists in his cruelty?’

‘Then must some means be found of carrying Drummond into Corbeil.  It will go hard with me but he shall be saved, Malcolm.  But this whole army is against a Scot; and Harry’s eye is everywhere, and his fierceness unrelenting.  Malcolm, this is bondage!  May God and St. Andrew aid us!’

When the King came to saying that, it was plain he deemed the case past all other aid.

Malcolm’s misery was great.  The very sight of Patrick had made a mighty revulsion in his feelings.  The almost forgotten associations of Glenuskie were revived; the forms of his guardian and of Lily came before him, as he heard familiar names and phrases in the dear home accent fall from the fevered lips.  Coldingham rose up before him, and St. Abbs, with Lily watching on the rocks for tidings of her knight—her knight, to whom her brother had once promised to resign all his lands and honours, but who now lay captured by plunderers, among whom that brother made one, and in peril of a shameful death.  Oh, far better die in his stead, than return to Lily with tidings such as these!

Was this retribution for his broken purpose, and for having fallen away, not merely into secular life, but into sins that stood between him and religious rites?  The King had called St. Andrew to aid!  Must a proof of repentance and change be given, ere that aid would come?  Should he vow himself again to the cloister, yield up the hope of Esclairmonde, and devote himself for Patrick’s sake?  Could he ever be happy with Patrick dead, and Esclairmonde driven and harassed into being his wife?  Were it not better to vow at once, that so his cousin were spared he would return to his old purposes?

Almost had he uttered the vow, when, tugging hard at his heart, came the vision of Esclairmonde’s loveliness, and he felt it beyond his strength to resign her voluntarily; besides, how Madame of Hainault and Monseigneur de Thérouenne would deride his uncertainties; and how intolerable it would be to leave Esclairmonde to fall into the hands of Boëmond of Burgundy.

Such a renunciation could not be made; he did not even know that Patrick’s safety depended on it; and instead of that, he promised, with great fervency of devotion, that if St. Andrew would save Patrick Drummond, and bring about the two marriages, a most splendid monastery for educational purposes, such as the King so much wished to found, should be his reward.  It should be in honour of St. Andrew, and should be endowed with Esclairmonde’s wealth, which would be quite ample enough, both for this and for a noble portion for Lily.  Surely St. Andrew must accept such a vow, and spare Patrick!  So Malcolm tried to pacify an anguish of suspense that would not be pacified.