“Say first, my lord, how Gloucester now will reconcile these widely adverse duties, how comport himself, if duty to his liege and sovereign call on him to lift his sword against his brother?” demanded Edward, raising himself on his elbow, and looking on the kneeling nobleman with eyes which seemed to have recovered their flashing light to penetrate his soul.  Wrath itself appeared to have subsided before this calm yet eloquent appeal, which in that age could scarcely have been resisted without affecting the honor of the knight to whom it was addressed.

An expression of suffering, amounting almost to anguish, took the place of energy and fervor on the noble countenance of Gloucester, and his voice, which had never once quivered or failed him in the height of Edward’s wrath, now absolutely shook with the effort to master his emotion.  Twice he essayed to speak ere words came; at length—­

“With Robert of Carrick Gilbert of Gloucester was allied as brother, my liege,” he said.  “With Robert the rebel, Robert the would-be king, the daring opposer of my sovereign, Gloucester can have naught in common.  My liege, as a knight and gentleman, I have done my duty fearlessly, openly; as fearlessly, as openly, as your grace’s loyal liegeman, fief, and subject, in the camp and in the court, in victory or defeat, against all manner or ranks of men, be they friends or foes; to my secret heart I am thine, and thine alone.  In proof of which submission, my royal liege, lest still in your grace’s judgment Gloucester be not cleared from treachery, behold I resign alike my sword and coronet to your royal hands, never again to be resumed, save at my sovereign’s bidding.”

His voice became again firm ere he concluded, and with the same respectful deference yet manly pride which had marked his bearing throughout, he laid his sheathed sword and golden coronet at his sovereign’s feet, and then rising steadily and unflinchingly, returned Edward’s searching glance, and calmly awaited his decision.

“By St. Edward!  Baron of Gloucester,” he exclaimed, in his own tone of kingly courtesy, mingled with a species of admiration he cared not to conceal, “thou hast fairly challenged us to run a tilt with thee, not of sword and lance, but of all knightly and generous courtesy.  I were no true knight to condemn, nor king to mistrust thee; yet, of a truth, the fruit of thy rash act might chafe a cooler mood than ours.  Knowest thou Sir John Comyn is murdered—­murdered by the arch traitor thou hast saved from our wrath?”

“I heard it, good my liege,” calmly returned Gloucester.  “Robert of Carrick was no temper to pass by injuries, aggravated, traitorous injuries, unavenged.”

“And this is all thou sayest!” exclaimed Edward, his wrath once again gaining dominion.  “Wouldst thou defend this base deed on plea, forsooth, that Comyn was a traitor?  Traitor—­and to whom?”

“To the man that trusted him, my liege; to him he falsely swore to second and to aid.  To every law of knighthood and of honor I say he was a traitor, and deserved his fate.”