And he extended the exercise Elfric had written to the abbot, who looked at the writing for one moment, and then glanced severely at the prince. The character was very like his own, but there was a difference.
“Is this your handwriting, Prince Edwy?” he asked.
“Of course. Elfric saw me write it, did you not?”
Elfric was not used to falsehood; he could not frame his lips to say “Yes.”
Dunstan observed his confusion, and he turned to the prince with a look in which contempt seemed to struggle with passive self-possession.
“I trust, Edwy,” he said, “you will remember that the word of a king is said to be his bond, and so should the word of a prince be if he ever hopes to reign. I shall give Father Benedict charge to superintend your studies as usual.”
He wished them a grave good morning, and left the room.
As soon as the last sound of his steps had ceased, Edwy turned sharply to Elfric—“Why did you not say yes at once? Surely you have a tongue?”
“It has never learnt to lie.”
“Pooh! What is the harm of such a white lie as that would have been? If you cannot give the credit of a Latin exercise, which you happen to have written, to your future king, you must be selfish; it is my writing, if you give it me, isn’t it?”