through the buildings; and priests, men-at-arms, and peasants began to press forward to do him homage. But he raised his hand—

“Hold, children,” he said. “I thank you all; but much must come ere ye imperil yourselves by making oaths to me that ye might soon have to break! Let me pass on and see my sister.”

Abbeys were not strictly cloistered then, and the Abbess Christina was at the door, a tall woman, older than her brother, and somewhat hard-featured, and beside her was a lovely fair girl, with peach-like cheeks and bright blue eyes, who threw herself into David’s arms, full of delight.

“Brother,” said Christina, “did I hear aright? And have they hailed thee King? Are the years of cruel wrong ended at last? Victor for others, wilt thou be victor for thyself?”

“What is consistent with God’s will, and with mine oaths, that I hope to do,” was Edgar’s reply.

But even as he stood beside the Abbess in the porch, without having yet entered, there was a clattering and trampling of horse, and through the gate came hastily a young man in a hauberk, with a ring of gold about his helmet, holding out his hands as he saw the Atheling.

“Sire Edgar,” he said, “I knew not I should find you here, when I came to pay my first devoirs as a King to the Lady Mother Abbess” (he kissed her unwilling hand) “and the Lady Edith.”

Edith turned away a blushing face, and the Abbess faltered—

“As a King?”

“Yea, lady. As such have I been owned by all at Winchester. I should be at Westminster for my Coronation, save that I turned from my course to win her who shall share my crown.”

“Is it even thus, Henry?” said Edgar. “Hast not thought of other rights?”

“Of that crazed fellow Robert’s?” demanded Henry. “Trouble not thine head for him! Even if he came back living from this Holy War in the East, my father had too much mercy on England to leave it to the like of him.”

“There be other and older rights, Sir Henry,” said the Abbess.

Henry looked up for a moment in some consternation. “Ho! Sir Edgar, thou hast been so long a peaceful man that I had forgotten. Thou knowest thy day went by with Hereward le Wake. See, fair Edith and I know one another—she shall be my Queen.”

“Veiled and vowed,” began the 

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