But Dr. Bennet would not listen.  He silenced the boy by saying he had no more right to hear it than Malcolm as yet to make it.  Nay, that inner dedication, for which Malcolm yearned as a sacred bond to his own will, the priest forbade.  It was no moment to make such a promise in his present mood, when he did not know himself.  If broken, he would only be adding sin to sin; nor was Malcolm, with all his errors fresh upon him, in any state to dedicate himself worthily.  The errors—­which in Ralf Percy, or in most other youths, might have seemed slight—­were heavy stains on one who, like Malcolm, had erred, not thoughtlessly, but with a conscience of them all, in wilful abandonment of his higher principles.  On these the chaplain mostly dwelt; on these he tried to direct Malcolm’s repentance; and, finding that the youth was in perpetual extremes of remorse, and that his abject submission was a sort of fresh form of wilfulness, almost passion at being forbidden to bind himself by the vow, he told him that the true token of repentance was steadiness and constancy; and that therefore his absolution must be deferred until he had thus shown that his penitence was true and sincere—­by perseverance, firstly, in the devotions that the chaplain appointed for him, and, secondly, in meeting whatever temptations might be in store for him.  Nay, the cruel chaplain absolutely forbade the white, excited, eager boy to spend half the night in chapel over the first division of these penitential psalms and prayers, but on his obedience sent him at once to his bed.

Malcolm could have torn his hair.  Unabsolved!  Still under the weight of sin; still unpledged; still on dangerous ground; still left to a secular life—­and that without Esclairmonde!  Why had he not gone to a French Benedictine, who would have caught at his vow, and crowned his penitence with some magnificent satisfying asceticism?

Yet something in his heart, something in the father’s own authority, made him submit; and in a tumult of feeling, more wretched even than before his confession, he threw himself on his bed, expecting to charge the tossings of a miserable night on Dr. Bennet, and to creep down barefoot to the chapel in the early morning to begin his Misereres.

Instead of which, his first wakening was in broad daylight, by King James standing over him.  ‘Malcolm,’ he said, ’I have answered for you that you are discreet and trusty.  A message of weight is to be placed in your hands.  Come with me to the Duke of Bedford.’

Malcolm could only dress himself, and obediently follow to the chamber, where sat the Duke, his whole countenance looking as if the light of his life had gone out, but still steadfastly set to bear the heavy burden that had been placed on his shoulders.

He called Malcolm to him, and showed him a ring, asking whether he knew it.

‘The King’s signet—­King Harry’s,’ said Malcolm.