There was time on the way for Ralf Percy to give them the particulars.  ’We had gone forth—­Trenton, Kitson, altogether some half-dozen of us—­for a mouthful of air in the forest after our guard all day in the chapel, when about a mile from the Castle we heard a scuffle, and clashing of arms.  So breaking through the thicket, we saw a score of fellows on horseback fully armed, and in the midst poor Glenuskie dragged to the ground and struggling hard with two of them.  We drew our swords, hallooed, and leapt out; and the knaves never stayed to see how many of us there were, but made off like the dastards they were, but not till one had dealt poor Stewart this parting stroke.  He hath been bleeding like a sheep all the way home, and hath scarce spoken but a thanksgiving for our having come in time, as he called it, and to ask for Dr. Bennet and the Duke.’

The words brought them to the door of the chapel, where for a time the chants around King Henry had paused in the agitation of the new arrival.  As the black and white crowd of priests and monks opened and made way for the King and Duke, they saw, in the full light of the wax tapers, laid on a pile of cushions not far from King Henry’s feet, the figure of Malcolm, his riding-gown open at the breast, and kerchiefs dyed and soaked with blood upon it; the black of his garments and hair enhancing the ghastly whiteness of his face, and yet an air of peace and joy in the eyes and in the folded hands, as Dr. Bennet and another priest stood over him, administering those abbreviated rites of farewell blessing which the Church sanctioned in cases of sudden and violent death.  The princes both stood aside, and presently Malcolm faintly said, ’Thank God!  I trusted to His mercy to pardon!  Now all would be well could I but see the Duke.’

‘I am here, dear youth,’ said Bedford, kneeling on one side of him; while James, coming to the other side, spoke to him affectionately; but to him Malcolm only replied by a fond clasp of the hand, giving his sole attention to Bedford, to whom he held the signet.

‘It has cost too much,’ said Bedford, sadly.

’Oh, Sir, this would be naught, save that I am all that lies between her—­the Lady Esclairmonde—­and Boemond of Burgundy;’ and as at that moment Bedford saw the gold betrothal ring on the finger, his countenance lost something of the pitying concern it had worn.  Malcolm detected the expression, and rallying his powers the more, continued:  ’Sir, there was no help—­they vowed that she must choose between Boemond and me.  On the faith of a dying man, I hold her troth but in trust; I pledged myself to her to restore it when her way is clear to her purpose.  She would never be mine but in name.  And now who will save her?  My life alone is between her and yonder wolf.  Oh, Sir Duke, promise me to save her, and I die content.’

‘This is mere waste of time!’ broke in the Duke.  ’Where are the knave chirurgeons?—­See, James, if the lad dies, ’twill be from mere loss of blood; there is no inward bleeding; and if there be no more loitering, he will do well.’