“Prepare the admission, then,” said the King after him.
The secretary bowed as he turned and went out of the room once more.
Henry beckoned.
“Come, gentlemen.”
He watched them with a solemn joviality as they came up, the Archbishop in front, the father and son together, and the two others behind.
“You are a sad crew,” began the King, eyeing them pleasantly, and sitting forward with a hand on either knee, “and I am astonished, my Lord of Canterbury, at your companying with them. But we will have mercy, and remember your son’s services, Master Torridon, in the past. That alone will excuse him. Remember that. That alone. He is the stronger man, if he turned out the priest there. And I remember your son very well, too; and will forgive him. But I shall not employ him again. And his forgiveness shall cover yours, Master Priest; but you must be off—you must be off, sir,” he barked suddenly, “out of these realms in a week. We will have no more treason from you.”
The fierce overpowering personality flared out as he spoke, and Chris felt his heart beat sick at the force of it.
“And you two gentlemen,” went on the King, still smouldering, “you two had best hold your tongues. We will not hear such talk in our presence or out of it. But we will excuse it now. There, sir, have I said enough?”
Sir James dropped abruptly on his knees.
“Oh! God bless your Grace!” he began, with the tears running down.