‘We have had a sad time of it, Nigel,’ said James, with trembling lip.

‘And if Brewster tells me right, ye’ve not tasted food the whole day?’ said Nigel, laying an authoritative hand on his royal pupil.  ’Nay, sit ye down; here come the varlets with the meal I bade them have ready.’

James passively yielded, courteously signing to the others to share the food that was spread on a table; and with the same scarcely conscious grace, making inquiries, which elicited that Patrick Drummond’s hurts had been caused by his horse falling and rolling over with him, whilst with Sir John Swinton and other Scottish knights he was reconnoitring the line of the English march.  He was too much injured to be taken back to the far distant camp, and had accordingly been intrusted to the French farmer, with no attendant but a young French horse-boy, since he was too poor to keep a squire.  He knew nothing more, for fever had run high; and he had not even been sensible of his desertion by his French hosts on the approach of the English, far less of the fire, and of his rescue by the King and Malcolm; but for this he seemed inclined to compensate to the utmost, by the intense eagerness of devotion with which he regarded James, who sat meanwhile crushed down by the weight of his own grief.

‘I can eat no more, Baird,’ said he, swallowing down a draught of wine, and pushing aside his trencher.  ’Your license, gentlemen.  I must be alone.  Take care of the lads, Nigel.  Malcolm is spent too.  His deft service was welcome to—­to my dearest brother.’

And though he hastily shut himself into his own inner chamber, it was not till they had seen that his grief was becoming uncontrollable.

Patrick could not but murmur, ‘Dearest brother!’

‘Ay, like brothers they loved!’ said Baird, gravely.

‘A strange brotherhood,’ began Drummond.

But Malcolm cried, with much agitation, ’Not a word, Patie!  You know not what you say.  Take heed of profaning the name of one who is gone to the Sion above.’

‘You turned English, our wee Malcolm!’ exclaimed Drummond, in amaze.

‘There is no English, French, or Scot where he is gone!’ cried Malcolm.  ’No Babel!  O Patie, I have been far fallen!  I have done you in heart a grievous wrong! but if I have turned back in time, it is his doing that lies there.’

‘His! what, Harry of Lancaster’s?’ demanded the bewildered Patrick.  ’What had he to do with you?’

‘He has been my only true friend here!’ cried Malcolm.  ’Oh, if my hand be free from actual spoil and bloodshed, it was his doing!  Oh, that he could hear me bless him for the chastisement I took so bitterly!’

‘Chastisement!’ demanded Patrick.  ’The English King dared chastise you! of Scots blood royal!  ‘Tis well he is dead!’