his harp in his hand, from time to time dreamily calling forth a few
plaintive notes, such as he said always rang in his ears after hearing a
Scottish voice, when they again heard Henry's voice in hot displeasure
with the provost-marshal for having deferred the execution of the
runaways till after the hearing of the story of the King of Scots.

'His commands were not to be transgressed for the king of anything,' and
he only reprieved the wretches till morning that their fate might be more
signal. He spoke with the peremptory fierceness that had of late almost
obscured his natural good-humour and kindliness; and when he entered the
refectory and threw himself into a chair by the fire, he looked wearied
out in body and mind, shivered and coughed, and said with unwonted
depression that the sullen fellows would make a quagmire of their camp
after all, since a French reinforcement had come up, and the vigilance
that would be needed would occupy the whole army. At supper he ate
little and spoke less; and when James would have related his encounter
within the Scots, he cut him short, saying, 'Let that rest till morning;
I am sick of hearing of it! An air upon thy harp would be more to the
purpose.'

Nor would James have been unwilling to be silent on old Douglas's conduct
if he had not been anxious to plead for the panic-stricken archers, as
well as to extol the conduct of the two youths, and of the Yorkshire
squires; but, as he divined that the young Hotspur would regard praise
from him as an insult, he deferred the subject for his absence, and
launched into a plaintive narrative ballad, to which Henry listened,
leaning back in his chair, often dozing, but without relaxation of the
anxiety that sat on his pale face, and ever and anon wakening within a
heavy sigh, as though his buoyant spirits were giving way under the
weight of care he had brought on himself.

James was just singing of one of the many knightly orphans of romance,
exposed in woods to the nurture of bears, his father slain, his mother
dead of grief--a ditty he had perhaps chosen for its soporific
powers--when a gay bugle blast rang through the court of the convent.

'The French would scarce send to parley thus late,' exclaimed James; but
the next moment a joyful clamour arose without, and Henry, springing to
his feet, spoke not, but stood awaiting the tidings with the colour
burning on cheek and brow in suppressed excitement.

An esquire, splashed to t