The question whether this should be to England, or to the southern parts of France held by the Armagnacs, remained for decision, as opportunity should direct:  Alice constantly urging her own scheme of carrying her friend with her as her tire-woman, if, as seemed likely, she were sent home; and Esclairmonde refusing to consent to anything that might bring the bride into troubles with her father and husband; and the debates being only interrupted when the Lady Montagu was required to take her turn among the weary ladies-in-waiting around Catherine’s state bed.

Whenever she was not required to control, console, or persuade the Queen, Esclairmonde spent most of her time in a chamber apart from the chatter of Jaqueline’s little court, where she was weaving, in the delicate point-lace work she had learnt in her Flemish convent, an exquisite robe, such as were worn by priests at Mass.  She seldom worked, save for the poor; but she longed to do some honour to the one man who would have promoted her nearly vanished scheme, and this work she trusted to offer for a vestment to be used at his burial Mass.  Many a cherished plan was resigned, many an act of self-negation uttered, as she bent over the dainty web; many an entreaty breathed, that her moment’s wandering of fancy might not be reckoned against her, but that she might be aided to keep the promise of her infancy, and devote herself undivided to the direct service of God and of His poor, be it in ever so humble a station.

Here she sat alone, when steps approached, the door opened, and of all people he stood before her whom she least wished to see, the young Lord of Glenuskie.

Amazed as she was, she betrayed no confusion, and merely rose, saying quietly, ‘This is an error.  I will show you Madame’s apartment.’

But Malcolm, who had begun by looking far more confused than she, cried earnestly, ’One moment, lady.  I came not willingly; the Countess sent for me to her.  But since I am here—­listen while Heaven gives me strength to say it—­I will trouble you never again.  I am come to a better mind.  Oh, forgive me!’

‘What are you here then for, Sir?’ said Esclairmonde, with the same defensive dignity.

‘My king sent me, against my will, on a mission to the Queen,’ panted Malcolm.  ’I am forced to wait here; or, lady, I should have been this day doing penance for my pursuit of you.  Verily I am a penitent.  Mayhap Heaven will forgive me, if you will.’

‘If I understand you aright, it is well,’ said Esclairmonde, still gravely and doubtfully.

‘It is so indeed,’ protested Malcolm, with a terrible wrench to his heart, yet a sensation of freeing his conscience.  ’Fear me no longer now.  After that which I saw at Vincennes, I know what it is to be on the straight path, and—­oh! what it is to have fallen from it.  How could I dream of dragging you down to be with one so unworthy, becoming more worthless each day?  Lady, if I never see you more, pardon me, pray for me, as a saint for a poor outcast on earth!’