“And this to thy sovereign, madman?  To us, whose dignity and person have been insulted, lowered, trampled on!  By all the saints, thou hast tempted us too far!  What ho, there, guards!  Am I indeed so old and witless,” he muttered, sinking back again upon the couch from which he had started in the moment of excitement, “as so soon to forget a knightly nobleness, which in former days would have knitted my very soul to his?  Bah! ’tis this fell disease that spoke, not Edward.  Away with ye, sir guards, we want ye not,” he added, imperatively, as they approached at his summons.  “And thou, sir earl, take up thy sword, and hence from my sight a while;—­answer not, but obey.  I fear more for mine own honor than thou dost for thy head.  We neither disarm nor restrain thee, for we trust thee still; but away with thee, for on our kingly faith, thou hast tried us sorely.”

Gloucester flung himself on his knee beside his sovereign, his lips upon the royal hand, which, though scarcely yielded to him, was not withheld, and hastily resuming his sword and coronet, with a deep reverence, silently withdrew.

The king looked after him, admiration and fierce anger struggling for dominion alike on his countenance as in his heart, and then sternly and piercingly he scanned the noble crowd, who, hushed into a silence of terror as well as of extreme interest during the scene they had beheld, now seemed absolutely to shrink from the dark, flashing orbs of the king, as they rested on each successively, as if the accusation of lip would follow that of eye, and the charge of treason fall indiscriminately on all; but, exhausted from the passion to which he had given vent, Edward once more stretched himself on his cushions, and merely muttered—­

“Deserved his fate—­a traitor.  Is Gloucester mad—­or worse, disloyal?  No; that open brow and fearless eye are truth and faithfulness alone.  I will not doubt him; ’tis but his lingering love for that foul traitor, Bruce, which I were no true knight to hold in blame.  But that murder, that base murder—­insult alike to our authority, our realm—­by every saint in heaven, it shall be fearfully avenged, and that madman rue the day he dared fling down the gauntlet of rebellion!” and as he spoke, his right hand instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword, and half drew it from its sheath.

“Madman, in very truth, my liege,” said Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, who, high in favor with his sovereign, alone ventured to address him; “as your grace will believe, when I say not only hath he dared defy thee by the murder of Comyn, but has had the presumptuous folly to enact the farce of coronation, taking upon himself all the insignia of a king.”

“How! what sayst thou, De Valence,” returned Edward, again starting up, “coronation—­king?  By St. Edward! this passeth all credence.  Whence hadst thou this witless news?”

“From sure authority, my liege, marvellous as they seem.  These papers, if it please your grace to peruse, contain matters of import which demand most serious attention.”