that Deborah the
prophetess to herd him.'

James in sooth viewed this warning as another touch of Lancastrian
superstition, and only considered how to broach the question. Malcolm,
meantime, was balancing between the now approaching decision between
Oxford and France. He certainly felt something of his old horror of
warlike scenes; but even this was lessening; he was aware that battles
were not every-day occurrences, and that often there was no danger at
all. He would not willingly be separated from his king; and if the
female part of the Court were to accompany the campaign, it would be
losing sight of all he cared for, if he were left among a set of stranger
shavelings at Oxford. Yet he was reluctant to break with the old habits
that had hitherto been part of his nature; he felt, after every word of
Esclairmonde--nay, after every glance towards her--as though it were a
blessed thing to have, like her, chosen the better part; he knew she
would approve his resort to the home of piety and learning; he was aware
that when with Ralf Percy and the other youths of the Court he was
ashamed of his own scrupulousness, and tempted to neglect observances
that they might call monkish and unmanly; and he was not at all sure that
in face of the enemy a panic might not seize him and disgrace him for
ever! In effect he did not know what he wished, even when he found that
the Queen had decided against going across the sea, and that therefore
all the ladies would remain with her at Shene or Windsor.

He should probably never again see Esclairmonde, the guiding star of his
recent life, the embodiment of all that he had imagined when conning the
quaint old English poems that told the Legend of Seynct Katharine; and as
he leant musingly against a lattice, feeling as if the brightness of his
life was going out, King James merrily addressed him:--

'Eh! the fit is on you too, boy!'

'What fit, Sir?' Malcolm opened his eyes.

'The pleasing madness.'

Malcolm uttered a cry like horror, and reddened crimson. 'Sir! Sir!
Sir!' he stammered.

'A well-known token of the disease is raving.'

'Sir, Sir! I implore you to speak of nothing so profane.'

'I am not given to profanity,' said James, endeavouring to look severe,
but with laughter in his voice. 'Methought you were not yet so sacred a
personage.'

'Myself! No; but that I--I should dare to have such thoughts of--oh,
Sir!' and Malcolm covered his face with his hands. 'Oh