Even when the service was ended, the King would not leave the Minster.  He lifted himself up to bid Bedford and his companions return; but for himself, he intended to remain and confess, in preparation for being ‘houselled’ at the Mass for the dead early the next morning, before hastening on the southern journey.

Was this, thought the bewildered Malcolm as he fell asleep, the godless atmosphere he had been used to think all that was not Glenuskie or Coldingham—­England above all?

Indeed, in the frosty twilight of the spring morning, though Henry was now clad in his usual garb, sleeplessness, sorrow, and fasting made him as wan and haggard as any ascetic monk; his eyes were sunken, and his closed lips bore a stern fixed expression, which scarcely softened even when the sacrificial rite struck the notes of praise; and though a light came into his eye, it was rather the devotion of one who had offered himself, than the gleam of hopeful exultation.  The horses stood saddled at the west door, for Henry was feverishly eager to reach Pontefract, where he had left his queen, and wished to avoid the delay of breaking his fast at York, but only to snatch a meal at some country hostel on his way.

Round the horses, however, a crowd of the citizens were collected to gaze; and two or three women with children in their arms made piteous entreaties for the King’s healing touch for their little ones.  The kind Henry waited, ungloved his hand, asked his treasurer for the gold pieces that were a much-esteemed part of the cure, and signed to his attendant chaplain to say the Collect appointed for the rite.

Fervent blessings were meantime murmured through the crowd, which broke out into loud shouts of ‘God save King Harry!’ as he at length leapt into the saddle; but at that moment, a feeble, withered old man, leaning on a staff, and wearing a bedesman’s gown, peered up, and muttered to a comrade—­

’Fair-faced, quotha—­fair, maybe, but not long for this world!  One is gone already, and the rest will not be long after; the holy man’s words will have their way—­the death mark is on him.’

The words caught James’s ear, and he angrily turned round:  ’Foul-mouthed raven, peace with thy traitor croak!’ but Bedford caught his arm, crying—­

’Hush! ‘tis a mere bedesman;’ and bending forward to pour a handful of silver into the beggar’s cap, he said, ’Pray, Gaffer, pray—­pray for the dead and living, both.’

‘So,’ said James, as both mounted, ‘there’s a fee for a boding traitor.’

‘I knew his face,’ said Bedford, with a shudder; ’he belonged to Archbishop Scrope.’

‘A traitor, too,’ said James.