Remembering how inexorably Henry hung every Scotch prisoner, Malcolm’s heart sank.  This was why no one had sought the prisoner.  A Scot was not available for ransom!  Should he be the murderer of his cousin, Lily’s love?

Meantime James hurriedly explained to Kitson that here was the sick man left by the enemy, summoned Sir Nigel to his side, closed his own visor, and called for water; then hung over the prisoner, anxious to prevent the first word from being broad Scotch.  In the free air, some long sobs showed that Patrick was struggling back to life; and James at once said, ‘Rendez vous, Messire;’ but he neither answered, nor was there meaning in his eyes.  And James perceived that he was bandaged as though for broken ribs, and that his right shoulder was dislocated, and no doubt had been a second time pulled out when Malcolm had grasped him by the arms.  He swooned again at the first attempt to lift him, and a hay-cart having been left in the flight of the marauders, he was laid in it, and covered with the King’s cloak, to be conveyed to Corbeil, where James trusted to secure his life by personal intercession with Henry.  He groaned heavily several times, but never opened his eyes or spoke articulately the whole way; and James and Sir Nigel kept on either side of the cart, ready to address him in French the first moment, having told the English that he was a prisoner of quality, who must be carefully conveyed to King James’s tent at Corbeil.  Malcolm was not allowed to approach, lest he should be recognized; and he rode along in an agony of shame and suspense, with very different feelings towards Patrick than those with which he had of late thought of him, or of his own promises.  If Patrick died through this plundering raid, how should he ever face Lily?

It was nearly night ere they reached Corbeil, where the tents were pitched outside the little town.  James committed his captive to the prudent care of old Baird, bidding him send for a French or Burgundian surgeon, unable to detect the Scottish tongue; and then, taking Malcolm with him, he crossed the square in the centre of the camp to the royal pavilion, opposite to which his own was pitched.

It was a sultry night, and Henry had insisted on sleeping in his tent, declaring himself sick of stone walls; and as they approached his voice could be heard in brief excited sentences, giving orders, and asking for the King of Scots.

‘Here, Sir,’ said James, stopping in where the curtain was looped up, and showed King Henry half sitting, half lying, on a couch of cushions and deer-skins, his eyes full of fire, his thin face flushed with deep colour; Bedford, March, Warwick, and Salisbury in attendance.

‘Ho! you are late!’ said Henry.  ’Did you come up with the caitiff robbers?’

‘They made off as we rode up.  The village was already burnt.’

‘Who were they?  I hope you hung them on the spot, as I bade,’ continued Henry, coughing between his sentences, and almost in spite of himself, putting his hand to his side.