“It was, in truth, a rash and guilty deed, my son,” answered the abbot, gravely, yet mildly, “and one that heaven in its justice will scarce pass unavenged.  Man hath given thee the absolution accorded to the true and faithful penitent, for such thou art; yet scarcely dare we hope offended heaven is appeased.  Justice will visit thee with trouble—­sore, oppressing, grievous trouble.  Yet despair not:  thou wilt come forth the purer, nobler, brighter, from the fire; despair not, but as a child receive a father’s chastening; lean upon that love, which wills not death, 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 penitence to me—­to me, who frail and lowly unto thee, am yet the minister of Him whom sin offends.  To thee he stands a warrior and a king, who rude irreverence may brook not, even from his brother.  Be peace between us, then, my son; an old man’s blessing on thy fierce yet knightly spirit rest.”