“Were the fate of man in his own hands, were it his and his alone to make or mar his destiny, I should e’en proclaim thee mad, my son, and seek to turn thee from thy desperate purpose; but it is not so.  Man is but an instrument, and He who urged thee to this deed, who wills not this poor land to rest enslaved, will give thee strength and wisdom for its freedom.  His ways are not as man’s; and circled as thou seemest with foes, His strength shall bring thee forth and gird thee with His glory.  Thou wouldst not turn aside, my son—­thou fearest not thy foes?”

“Fear! holy father:  it is a word unknown to the children of the Bruce!  I do but smile at mine extensive kingdom—­of some hundred acres square; smile at the eagerness with which they greet me liege and king, as if the words, so long unused, should now do double duty for long absence.”

“And better so, my son,” answered the old man, cheerfully.  “Devotion to her destined savior argues well for bonny Scotland; better do homage unto thee as liege and king, though usurpation hath abridged thy kingdom, than to the hireling of England’s Edward, all Scotland at his feet.  Men will not kneel to sceptred slaves, nor freemen fight for tyrants’ tools.  Sovereign of Scotland thou art, thou shalt be, Robert the Bruce!  Too long hast thou kept back; but now, if arms can fight and hearts can pray, thou shalt be king of Scotland.”

The abbot spoke with a fervor, a spirit which, though perhaps little accordant with his clerical character, thrilled to the Bruce’s heart.  He grasped the old man’s hand.

“Holy father,” he said, “thou wouldst inspire hearts with ardor needing inspiration more than mine; and to me thou givest hope, and confidence, and strength.  Too long have I slept and dreamed,” his countenance darkened, and his voice was sadder; “fickle in purpose, uncertain in accomplishment; permitting my youth to moulder ’neath the blasting atmosphere of tyranny.  Yet will I now atone for the neglected past.  Atone! aye, banish it from the minds of men.  My country hath a claim, a double claim upon me; she calls upon me, trumpet-tongued, to arise, avenge her, and redeem my misspent youth.  Nor shall she call on me in vain, so help me, gracious heaven!”

“Amen,” fervently responded the abbot; and the king continued more hurriedly—­

“And that stain, that blot, father?  Is there mercy in heaven to wash its darkness from my soul, or must it linger there forever preying on my spirit, dashing e’en its highest hopes and noblest dreams with poison, whispering its still voice of accusation, even when loudest rings the praise and love of men?  Is there no rest for this, no silence for that whisper?  Penitence, atonement, any thing thou wilt, let but my soul be free!” Hastily, and with step and countenance disordered, he traversed the chamber, his expressive countenance denoting the strife within.