The Days of Bruce Vol 1 A Story from Scottish History / Aguilar, Grace, 1816-1847

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Days of Bruce  Vol 1, by Grace Aguilar

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Days of Bruce  Vol 1
       A Story from Scottish History

Author: Grace Aguilar

Release Date: May 14, 2006 [EBook #18387]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DAYS OF BRUCE  VOL 1 ***




Produced by University of Michigan Digital Library,
Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Janet Blenkinship and the Online
Distributed Proofreaders Europe at http://dp.rastko.net








[Illustration: p. 148.]

The

DAYS OF BRUCE

BY

GRACE AGUILAR

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

THE

DAYS OF BRUCE;

A Story

FROM


SCOTTISH HISTORY.

BY

GRACE AGUILAR,

  AUTHOR OF "HOME INFLUENCE," "THE MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE,"
  "WOMAN'S FRIENDSHIP," "THE VALE OF CEDARS"
  ETC. ETC.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.


  NEW YORK:
  D. APPLETON & CO., 90, 92 & 94 GRAND ST.
  1871.




PREFACE.


As these pages have passed through the press, mingled feelings of pain
and pleasure have actuated my heart. Who shall speak the regret that
she, to whom its composition was a work of love, cannot participate in
the joy which its publication would have occasioned--who shall tell of
that anxious pleasure which I feel in witnessing the success of each and
all the efforts of her pen?

THE DAYS OF BRUCE must be considered as an endeavor to place
before the reader an interesting narrative of a period of history, in
itself a romance, and one perhaps as delightful as could well have been
selected. In combination with the story of Scotland's brave deliverer,
it must be viewed as an illustration of female character, and
descriptive of much that its Author considered excellent in woman. In
the high minded Isabella of Buchan is traced the resignation of a heart
wounded in its best affections, yet trustful midst accumulated misery.
In Isoline may be seen the self-inflicted unhappiness of a too
confident and self reliant nature; while in Agnes is delineated the
overwhelming of a mind too much akin to heaven in purity and innocence
to battle with the stern and bitter sorrows with which her life is
strewn.

How far the merits of this work may be perceived becomes not me to
judge; I only know and _feel_ that on me has devolved the endearing task
of publishing the writings of my lamented child--that I am fulfilling
the desire of her life.

SARAH AGUILAR.

_May_, 1852.




THE DAYS OF BRUCE.

CHAPTER I.


The month of March, rough and stormy as it is in England, would perhaps
be deemed mild and beautiful as May by those accustomed to meet and
brave its fury in the eastern Highlands, nor would the evening on which
our tale commences bely its wild and fitful character.

The wind howled round the ancient Tower of Buchan, in alternate gusts of
wailing and of fury, so mingled with the deep, heavy roll of the lashing
waves, that it was impossible to distinguish the roar of the one element
from the howl of the other. Neither tree, hill, nor wood intercepted the
rushing gale, to change the dull monotony of its gloomy tone. The Ythan,
indeed, darted by, swollen and turbid from continued storms, threatening
to overflow the barren plain it watered, but its voice was
undistinguishable amidst the louder wail of wind and ocean. Pine-trees,
dark, ragged, and stunted, and scattered so widely apart that each one
seemed monarch of some thirty acres, were the only traces of vegetation
for miles round. Nor were human habitations more abundant; indeed, few
dwellings, save those of such solid masonry as the Tower of Buchan,
could hope to stand scathless amidst the storms that in winter ever
swept along the moor.

No architectural beauty distinguished the residence of the Earls of
Buchan; none of that tasteful decoration peculiar to the Saxon, nor of
the more sombre yet more imposing style introduced by the Norman, and
known as the Gothic architecture.

Originally a hunting-lodge, it had been continually enlarged by
succeeding lords, without any regard either to symmetry or proportion,
elegance or convenience; and now, early in the year 1306, appeared
within its outer walls as a most heterogeneous mass of ill-shaped
turrets, courts, offices, and galleries, huddled together in ill-sorted
confusion, though presenting to the distant view a massive square
building, remarkable only for a strength and solidity capable of
resisting alike the war of elements and of man.

Without all seemed a dreary wilderness, but within existed indisputable
signs of active life. The warlike inhabitants of the tower, though
comparatively few in number, were continually passing to and fro in the
courts and galleries, or congregating in little knots, in eager
converse. Some cleansing their armor or arranging banners; others, young
and active, practising the various manoeuvres of mimic war; each and
all bearing on their brow that indescribable expression of anticipation
and excitement which seems ever on the expectant of it knows not what.
The condition of Scotland was indeed such as to keep her sons constantly
on the alert, preparing for defence or attack, as the insurging efforts
of the English or the commands of their lords should determine. From the
richest noble to the veriest serf, the aged man to the little child,
however contrary their politics and feelings, one spirit actuated all,
and that spirit was war--war in all its deadliest evils, its unmitigated
horrors, for it was native blood which deluged the rich plains, the
smiling vales, and fertile hills of Scotland.

Although the castle of Buchan resembled more a citadel intended for the
accommodation of armed vassals than the commodious dwelling of feudal
lords, one turret gave evidence, by its internal arrangement, of a
degree of refinement and a nearer approach to comfort than its fellows,
and seeming to proclaim that within its massive walls the lords of the
castle were accustomed to reside. The apartments were either hung with
heavy tapestry, which displayed, in gigantic proportions, the combats of
the Scots and Danes, or panelled with polished oak, rivalling ebony in
its glossy blackness, inlaid with solid silver. Heavy draperies of
damask fell from the ceiling to the floor at every window, a pleasant
guard, indeed, from the constant winds which found entrance through many
creaks and corners of the Gothic casements, but imparting a dingy aspect
to apartments lordly in their dimensions, and somewhat rich in
decoration.

The deep embrasures of the casements were thus in a manner severed from
the main apartment, for even when the curtains were completely lowered
there was space enough to contain a chair or two and a table. The
furniture corresponded in solidity and proportion to the panelling or
tapestry of the walls; nor was there any approach even at those doubtful
comforts already introduced in the more luxurious Norman castles of
South Britain.

The group, however, assembled in one of these ancient rooms needed not
the aid of adventitious ornament to betray the nobility of birth, and
those exalted and chivalric feelings inherent to their rank. The sun,
whose stormy radiance during the day had alternately deluged earth and
sky with fitful yet glorious brilliance, and then, burying itself in the
dark masses of overhanging clouds, robed every object in deepest gloom,
now seemed to concentrate his departing rays in one living flood of
splendor, and darting within the chamber, lingered in crimson glory
around the youthful form of a gentle girl, dyeing her long and
clustering curls with gold. Slightly bending over a large and cumbrous
frame which supported her embroidery, her attitude could no more conceal
the grace and lightness of her childlike form, than the glossy ringlets
the soft and radiant features which they shaded. There was archness
lurking in those dark blue eyes, to which tears seemed yet a stranger;
the clear and snowy forehead, the full red lip, and health-bespeaking
cheek had surely seen but smiles, and mirrored but the joyous light
which filled her gentle heart. Her figure seemed to speak a child, but
there was a something in that face, bright, glowing as it was, which yet
would tell of somewhat more than childhood--that seventeen summers had
done their work, and taught that guileless heart a sterner tale than
gladness.

A young man, but three or four years her senior, occupied an embroidered
settle at her feet. In complexion, as in the color of his hair and eyes,
there was similarity between them, but the likeness went no further, nor
would the most casual observer have looked on them as kindred. Fair and
lovely as the maiden would even have been pronounced, it was perhaps
more the expression, the sweet innocence that characterized her features
which gave to them their charm; but in the young man there was
infinitely more than this, though effeminate as was his complexion, and
the bright sunny curls which floated over his throat, he was eminently
and indescribably beautiful, for it was the mind, the glorious mind, the
kindling spirit which threw their radiance over his perfect features;
the spirit and mind which that noble form enshrined stood apart, and
though he knew it not himself, found not their equal in that dark period
of warfare and of woe. The sword and lance were the only instruments of
the feudal aristocracy; ambition, power, warlike fame, the principal
occupants of their thoughts; the chase, the tourney, or the foray, the
relaxation of their spirits. But unless that face deceived, there was
more, much more, which charactered the elder youth within that chamber.

A large and antique volume of Norse legends rested on his knee, which,
in a rich, manly voice, he was reading aloud to his companion,
diversifying his lecture with remarks and explanations, which, from the
happy smiles and earnest attention of the maiden, appeared to impart the
pleasure intended by the speaker. The other visible inhabitant of the
apartment was a noble-looking boy of about fifteen, far less steadily
employed than his companions, for at one time he was poising a heavy
lance, and throwing himself into the various attitudes of a finished
warrior; at others, brandished a two-handed sword, somewhat taller than
himself; then glancing over the shoulder of his sister--for so nearly
was he connected with the maiden, though the raven curls, the bright
flashing eye of jet, and darker skin, appeared to forswear such near
relationship--criticising her embroidery, and then transferring his
scrutiny to the strange figures on the gorgeously-illuminated
manuscript, and then for a longer period listening, as it were,
irresistibly to the wild legends which that deep voice was so
melodiously pouring forth.

"It will never do, Agnes. You cannot embroider the coronation of Kenneth
MacAlpine and listen to these wild tales at one and the same time. Look
at your clever pupil, Sir Nigel; she is placing a heavy iron buckler on
the poor king's head instead of his golden crown." The boy laughed long
and merrily as he spoke, and even Sir Nigel smiled; while Agnes,
blushing and confused, replied, half jestingly and half earnestly, "And
why not tell me of it before, Alan? you must have seen it long ago."

"And so I did, sweet sister mine; but I wished to see the effect of such
marvellous abstraction, and whether, in case of necessity, an iron
shield would serve our purpose as well as a jewelled diadem."

"Never fear, my boy. Let but the king stand forth, and there will be
Scottish men enow and willing to convert an iron buckler into a goodly
crown;" and as Sir Nigel spoke his eyes flashed, and his whole
countenance irradiated with a spirit that might not have been suspected
when in the act of reading, but which evidently only slept till awakened
by an all-sufficient call. "Let the tyrant Edward exult in the
possession of our country's crown and sceptre--he may find we need not
them to make a king; aye, and a king to snatch the regal diadem from the
proud usurper's brow--the Scottish sceptre from his blood-stained
hands!"

"Thou talkest wildly, Nigel," answered the lad, sorrowfully, his
features assuming an expression of judgment and feeling beyond his
years. "Who is there in Scotland will do this thing? who will dare again
the tyrant's rage? Is not this unhappy country divided within itself,
and how may it resist the foreign foe?"

"Wallace! think of Wallace! Did he not well-nigh wrest our country from
the tyrant's hands? And is there not one to follow in the path he
trod--no noble heart to do what he hath done?"

"Nigel, yes. Let but the rightful king stand forth, and were there none
other, I--even I, stripling as I am, with my good sword and single arm,
even with the dark blood of Comyn in my veins, Alan of Buchan, would
join him, aye, and die for him!"

"There spoke the blood of Duff, and not of Comyn!" burst impetuously
from the lips of Nigel, as he grasped the stripling's ready hand; "and
doubt not, noble boy, there are other hearts in Scotland bold and true
as thine; and even as Wallace, one will yet arise to wake them from
their stagnant sleep, and give them freedom."

"Wallace," said the maiden, fearfully; "ye talk of Wallace, of his bold
deeds and bolder heart, but bethink ye of his _fate_. Oh, were it not
better to be still than follow in his steps unto the scaffold?"

"Dearest, no; better the scaffold and the axe, aye, even the iron
chains and hangman's cord, than the gilded fetters of a tyrant's yoke.
Shame on thee, sweet Agnes, to counsel thoughts as these, and thou a
Scottish maiden." Yet even as he spoke chidingly, the voice of Nigel
became soft and thrilling, even as it had before been bold and daring.

"I fear me, Nigel, I have but little of my mother's blood within my
veins. I cannot bid them throb and bound as hers with patriotic love and
warrior fire. A lowly cot with him I loved were happiness for me."

"But that cot must rest upon a soil unchained, sweet Agnes, or joy could
have no resting there. Wherefore did Scotland rise against her
tyrant--why struggle as she hath to fling aside her chains? Was it her
noble sons? Alas, alas! degenerate and base, they sought chivalric fame;
forgetful of their country, they asked for knighthood from proud
Edward's hand, regardless that that hand had crowded fetters on their
fatherland, and would enslave their sons. Not to them did Scotland owe
the transient gleam of glorious light which, though extinguished in the
patriot's blood, hath left its trace behind. With the bold, the hardy,
lowly Scot that gleam had birth; they would be free to them. What
mattered that their tyrant was a valiant knight, a worthy son of
chivalry: they saw but an usurper, an enslaver, and they rose and
spurned his smiles--aye, and they _will_ rise again. And wert thou one
of them, sweet girl; a cotter's wife, thou too wouldst pine for freedom.
Yes; Scotland will bethink her of her warrior's fate, and shout aloud
revenge for Wallace!"

Either his argument was unanswerable, or the energy of his voice and
manner carried conviction with them, but a brighter glow mantled the
maiden's cheek, and with it stole the momentary shame--the wish, the
simple words that she had spoken could be recalled.

"Give us but a king for whom to fight--a king to love, revere, obey--a
king from whose hand knighthood were an honor, precious as life itself,
and there are noble hearts enough to swear fealty to him, and bright
swords ready to defend his throne," said the young heir of Buchan, as he
brandished his own weapon above his head, and then rested his arms upon
its broad hilt, despondingly. "But where is that king? Men speak of my
most gentle kinsman Sir John Comyn, called the Red--bah! The sceptre
were the same jewelled bauble in his impotent hand as in his sapient
uncle's; a gem, a toy, forsooth, the loan of crafty Edward. No! the Red
Comyn is no king for Scotland; and who is there besides? The rightful
heir--a cold, dull-blooded neutral--a wild and wavering changeling. I
pray thee be not angered, Nigel; it cannot be gainsaid, e'en though he
is thy brother."

"I know it Alan; know it but too well," answered Nigel, sadly, though
the dark glow rushed up to cheek and brow. "Yet Robert's blood is hot
enough. His deeds are plunged in mystery--his words not less so; yet I
cannot look on him as thou dost, as, alas! too many do. It may be that I
love him all too well; that dearer even than Edward, than all the rest,
has Robert ever been to me. He knows it not; for, sixteen years my
senior, he has ever held me as a child taking little heed of his wayward
course; and yet my heart has throbbed beneath his word, his look, as if
he were not what he seemed, but would--but must be something more."

"I ever thought thee but a wild enthusiast, gentle Nigel, and this
confirms it. Mystery, aye, such mystery as ever springs from actions at
variance with reason, judgment, valor--with all that frames the patriot.
Would that thou wert the representative of thy royal line; wert thou in
Earl Robert's place, thus, thus would Alan kneel to thee and hail thee
king!"

"Peace, peace, thou foolish boy, the crown and sceptre have no charm for
me; let me but see my country free, the tyrant humbled, my brother as my
trusting spirit whispers he _shall_ be, and Nigel asks no more."

"Art thou indeed so modest, gentle Nigel--is thy happiness so distinct
from self? thine eyes tell other tales sometimes, and speak they false,
fair sir?"

Timidly, yet irresistibly, the maiden glanced up from her embroidery,
but the gaze that met hers caused those bright eyes to fall more quickly
than they were raised, and vainly for a few seconds did she endeavor so
to steady her hand as to resume her task. Nigel was, however, spared
reply, for a sharp and sudden bugle-blast reverberated through the
tower, and with an exclamation of wondering inquiry Alan bounded from
the chamber. There was one other inmate of that apartment, whose
presence, although known and felt, had, as was evident, been no
restraint either to the employments or the sentiments of the two youths
and their companion. Their conversation had not passed unheeded,
although it had elicited no comment or rejoinder. The Countess of Buchan
stood within one of those deep embrasures we have noticed, at times
glancing towards the youthful group with an earnestness of sorrowing
affection that seemed to have no measure in its depth, no shrinking in
its might; at others, fixing a long, unmeaning, yet somewhat anxious
gaze on the wide plain and distant ocean, which the casement overlooked.

It was impossible to look once on the countenance of Isabella of Buchan,
and yet forbear to look again, The calm dignity, the graceful majesty of
her figure seemed to mark her as one born to command, to hold in willing
homage the minds and inclinations of men; her pure, pale brow and marble
cheek--for the rich rose seemed a stranger there--the long silky lash of
jet, the large, full, black eye, in its repose so soft that few would
guess how it could flash fire, and light up those classic features with
power to stir the stagnant souls of thousands and guide them with a
word. She looked in feature as in form a queen; fitted to be beloved,
formed to be obeyed. Her heavy robe of dark brocade, wrought with thick
threads of gold, seemed well suited to her majestic form; its long,
loose folds detracting naught from the graceful ease of her carriage.
Her thick, glossy hair, vying in its rich blackness with the raven's
wing, was laid in smooth bands upon her stately brow, and gathered up
behind in a careless knot, confined with a bodkin of massive gold. The
hood or coif, formed of curiously twisted black and golden threads,
which she wore in compliance with the Scottish custom, that thus made
the distinction between the matron and the maiden, took not from the
peculiarly graceful form of the head, nor in any part concealed the
richness of the hair. Calm and pensive as was the general expression of
her countenance, few could look upon it without that peculiar sensation
of respect, approaching to awe, which restrained and conquered sorrow
ever calls for. Perchance the cause of such emotion was all too
delicate, too deeply veiled to be defined by those rude hearts who were
yet conscious of its existence; and for them it was enough to own her
power, bow before it, and fear her as a being set apart.

Musingly she had stood looking forth on the wide waste; the distant
ocean, whose tumbling waves one moment gleamed in living light, at
others immersed in inky blackness, were barely distinguished from the
lowering sky. The moaning winds swept by, bearing the storm-cloud on
their wings; patches of blue gleamed strangely and brightly forth; and,
far in the west, crimson and amber, and pink and green, inlaid in
beautiful mosaic the departing luminary's place of rest.

"Alas, my gentle one," she had internally responded to her daughter's
words, "if thy mother's patriot heart could find no shield for woe, nor
her warrior fire, as thou deemest it, guard her from woman's trials,
what will be thy fate? This is no time for happy love, for peaceful
joys, returned as it may be; for--may I doubt that truthful brow, that
knightly soul (her glance was fixed on Nigel)--yet not now may the
Scottish knight find rest and peace in woman's love. And better is it
thus--the land of the slave is no home for love."

A faint yet a beautiful smile, dispersing as a momentary beam the
anxiety stamped on her features, awoke at the enthusiastic reply of
Nigel. Then she turned again to the casement, for her quick eye had
discerned a party of about ten horsemen approaching in the direction of
the tower, and on the summons of the bugle she advanced from her retreat
to the centre of the apartment.

"Why, surely thou art but a degenerate descendant of the brave Macduff,
mine Agnes, that a bugle blast should thus send back every drop of blood
to thy little heart," she said, playfully. "For shame, for shame! how
art thou fitted to be a warrior's bride? They are but Scottish men, and
true, methinks, if I recognize their leader rightly. And it is even so."

"Sir Robert Keith, right welcome," she added, as, marshalled by young
Alan, the knight appeared, bearing his plumed helmet in his hand, and
displaying haste and eagerness alike in his flushed features and soiled
armor.

"Ye have ridden long and hastily. Bid them hasten our evening meal, my
son; or stay, perchance Sir Robert needs thine aid to rid him of this
garb of war. Thou canst not serve one nobler."

"Nay, noble lady, knights must don, not doff their armor now. I bring ye
news, great, glorious news, which will not brook delay. A royal
messenger I come, charged by his grace my king--my country's king--with
missives to his friends, calling on all who spurn a tyrant's yoke--who
love their land, their homes, their freedom--on all who wish for
Wallace--to awake, arise, and join their patriot king!"

"Of whom speakest thou, Sir Robert Keith? I charge thee, speak!"
exclaimed Nigel, starting from the posture of dignified reserve with
which he had welcomed the knight, and springing towards him.

"The patriot and the king!--of whom canst thou speak?" said Alan, at the
same instant. "Thine are, in very truth, marvellous tidings, Sir Knight;
an' thou canst call up one to unite such names, and worthy of them, he
shall not call on me in vain."

"Is he not worthy, Alan of Buchan, who thus flings down the gauntlet,
who thus dares the fury of a mighty sovereign, and with a handful of
brave men prepares to follow in the steps of Wallace, to the throne or
to the scaffold?"

"Heed not my reckless boy, Sir Robert," said the countess, earnestly, as
the eyes of her son fell beneath the knight's glance of fiery reproach;
"no heart is truer to his country, no arm more eager to rise in her
defence."

"The king! the king!" gasped Nigel, some strange over-mastering emotion
checking his utterance. "Who is it that has thus dared, thus--"

"And canst thou too ask, young sir?" returned the knight, with a smile
of peculiar meaning. "Is thy sovereign's name unknown to thee? Is Robert
Bruce a name unknown, unheard, unloved, that thou, too, breathest it
not?"

"My brother, my brave, my noble brother!--I saw it, I knew it! Thou wert
no changeling, no slavish neutral; but even as I felt, thou art, thou
wilt be! My brother, my brother, I may live and die for thee!" and the
young enthusiast raised his clasped hands above his head, as in
speechless thanksgiving for these strange, exciting news; his flushed
cheek, his quivering lip, his moistened eye betraying an emotion which
seemed for the space of a moment to sink on the hearts of all who
witnessed it, and hush each feeling into silence. A shout from the court
below broke that momentary pause.

"God save King Robert! then, say I," vociferated Alan, eagerly grasping
the knight's hand. "Sit, sit, Sir Knight; and for the love of heaven,
speak more of this most wondrous tale. Erewhile, we hear of this goodly
Earl of Carrick at Edward's court, doing him homage, serving him as his
own English knight, and now in Scotland--aye, and Scotland's king. How
may we reconcile these contradictions?"

"Rather how did he vanish from the tyrant's hundred eyes, and leave the
court of England?" inquired Nigel, at the same instant as the Countess
of Buchan demanded, somewhat anxiously--

"And Sir John Comyn, recognizes he our sovereign's claim? Is he amongst
the Bruce's slender train?"

A dark cloud gathered on the noble brow of the knight, replacing the
chivalric courtesy with which he had hitherto responded to his
interrogators. He paused ere he answered, in a stern, deep voice--

"Sir John Comyn lived and died a traitor, lady. He hath received the
meed of his base treachery; his traitorous design for the renewed
slavery of his country--the imprisonment and death of the only one that
stood forth in her need."

"And by whom did the traitor die?" fiercely demanded the young heir of
Buchan. "Mother, thy cheek is blanched; yet wherefore? Comyn as I am,
shall we claim kindred with a traitor, and turn away from the good
cause, because, forsooth, a traitorous Comyn dies? No; were the Bruce's
own right hand red with the recreant's blood--he only is the Comyn's
king."

"Thou hast said it, youthful lord," said the knight, impressively. "Alan
of Buchan, bear that bold heart and patriot sword unto the Bruce's
throne, and Comyn's traitorous name shall be forgotten in the scion of
Macduff. Thy mother's loyal blood runs reddest in thy veins, young sir;
too pure for Comyn's base alloy. Know, then, the Bruce's hand is red
with the traitor's blood, and yet, fearless and firm in the holy justice
of his cause, he calls on his nobles and their vassals for their homage
and their aid--he calls on them to awake from their long sleep, and
shake off the iron yoke from their necks; to prove that Scotland--the
free, the dauntless, the unconquered soil, which once spurned the Roman
power, to which all other kingdoms bowed--is free, undaunted, and
unconquered still. He calls aloud, aye, even on ye, wife and son of
Comyn of Buchan, to snap the link that binds ye to a traitor's house,
and prove--though darkly, basely flows the blood of Macduff in one
descendant's veins, that the Earl of Fife refuses homage and allegiance
to his sovereign--in ye it rushes free, and bold, and loyal still."

"And he shall find it so. Mother, why do ye not speak? You, from whose
lips my heart first learnt to beat for Scotland my lips to pray that one
might come to save her from the yoke of tyranny. You, who taught me to
forget all private feud, to merge all feeling, every claim, in the one
great hope of Scotland's freedom. Now that the time is come, wherefore
art thou thus? Mother, my own noble mother, let me go forth with thy
blessing on my path, and ill and woe can come not near me. Speak to thy
son!" The undaunted boy flung himself on his knee before the countess as
he spoke. There was a dark and fearfully troubled expression on her
noble features. She had clasped her hands together, as if to still or
hide their unwonted trembling; but when she looked on those bright and
glowing features, there came a dark, dread vision of blood, and the axe
and cord, and she folded her arms around his neck, and sobbed in all a
mother's irrepressible agony.

"My own, my beautiful, to what have I doomed thee!" she cried. "To
death, to woe! aye, perchance, to that heaviest woe--a father's curse!
exposing thee to death, to the ills of all who dare to strike for
freedom. Alan, Alan, how can I bid thee forth to death? and yet it is I
have taught thee to love it better than the safety of a slave; longed,
prayed for this moment--deemed that for my country I could even give my
child--and now, now--oh God of mercy, give me strength!"

She bent down her head on his, clasping him to her heart, as thus to
still the tempest which had whelmed it. There is something terrible in
that strong emotion which sometimes suddenly and unexpectedly overpowers
the calmest and most controlled natures. It speaks of an agony so
measureless, so beyond the relief of sympathy, that it falls like an
electric spell on the hearts of all witnesses, sweeping all minor
passions into dust before it. Little accustomed as was Sir Robert Keith
to sympathize in such emotions, he now turned hastily aside, and, as if
fearing to trust himself in silence, commenced a hurried detail to Nigel
Bruce of the Earl of Carrick's escape from London, and his present
position. The young nobleman endeavored to confine his attention to the
subject, but his eyes would wander in the direction of Agnes, who,
terrified at emotions which in her mother she had never witnessed
before, was kneeling in tears beside her brother.

A strong convulsive shuddering passed over the bowed frame of Isabella
of Buchan; then she lifted up her head, and all traces of emotion had
passed from her features. Silently she pressed her lips on the fair
brows of her children alternately, and her voice faltered not as she
bade them rise and heed her not.

"We will speak further of this anon, Sir Robert," she said, so calmly
that the knight started. "Hurried and important as I deem your mission,
the day is too far spent to permit of your departure until the morrow;
you will honor our evening meal, and this true Scottish tower for a
night's lodging, and then we can have leisure for discourse on the
weighty matters you have touched upon."

She bowed courteously, as she turned with a slow, unfaltering step to
leave the room. Her resumed dignity recalled the bewildered senses of
her son, and, with graceful courtesy, he invited the knight to follow
him, and choose his lodging for the night.

"Agnes, mine own Agnes, now, indeed, may I win thee," whispered Nigel,
as tenderly he folded his arm round her, and looked fondly in her face.
"Scotland shall be free! her tyrants banished by her patriot king; and
then, then may not Nigel Bruce look to this little hand as his reward?
Shall not, may not the thought of thy pure, gentle love be mine, in the
tented field and battle's roar, urging me on, even should all other
voice be hushed?"

"Forgettest thou I am a Comyn, Nigel? That the dark stain of traitor, of
disloyalty is withering on our line, and wider and wider grows the
barrier between us and the Bruce?" The voice of the maiden was choked,
her bright eyes dim with tears.

"All, all I do forget, save that thou art mine own sweet love; and
though thy name is Comyn, thy heart is all Macduff. Weep not, my Agnes;
thine eyes were never framed for tears. Bright times for us and Scotland
are yet in store!"




CHAPTER II.


For the better comprehension of the events related in the preceding
chapter, it will be necessary to cast a summary glance on matters of
historical and domestic import no way irrelevant to our subject, save
and except their having taken place some few years previous to the
commencement of our tale.

The early years of Isabella of Buchan had been passed in happiness. The
only daughter, indeed for seven years the only child, of Malcolm, Earl
of Fife, deprived of her mother on the birth of her brother, her youth
had been nursed in a tenderness and care uncommon in those rude ages;
and yet, from being constantly with her father, she imbibed those higher
qualities of mind which so ably fitted her for the part which in after
years it was her lot to play. The last words of his devoted wife,
imploring him to educate her child himself, and not to sever the tie
between them, by following the example of his compeers, and sending her
either to England, France, or Norway, had been zealously observed by the
earl; the prosperous calm, which was the happy portion of Scotland
during the latter years of Alexander III., whose favorite minister he
was, enabled him to adhere to her wishes far more successfully than
could have been the case had he been called forth to war.

In her father's castle, then, were the first thirteen years of the Lady
Isabella spent, varied only by occasional visits to the court of
Alexander, where her beauty and vivacity rendered her a universal
favorite. Descended from one of the most ancient Scottish families,
whose race it was their boast had never been adulterated by the blood of
a foreigner, no Norman prejudice intermingled with the education of
Isabella, to tarnish in any degree those principles of loyalty and
patriotism which her father, the Earl of Fife, so zealously inculcated.
She was a more true, devoted Scottish woman at fourteen, than many of
her own rank whose years might double hers; ready even then to sacrifice
even life itself, were it called for in defence of her sovereign, or the
freedom of her country; and when, on the death of Alexander, clouds
began to darken the horizon of Scotland, her father scrupled not to
impart to her, child though she seemed, those fears and anxieties which
clouded his brow, and filled his spirit with foreboding gloom. It was
then that in her flashing eye and lofty soul, in the undaunted spirit,
which bore a while even his colder and more foreseeing mood along with
it, that he traced the fruit whose seed he had so carefully sown.

"Why should you fear for Scotland, my father?" she would urge; "is it
because her queen is but a child and now far distant, that anarchy and
gloom shall enfold our land? Is it not shame in ye thus craven to deem
her sons, when in thy own breast so much devotion and loyalty have rest?
why not judge others by yourself, my father, and know the dark things of
which ye dream can never be?"

"Thou speakest as the enthusiast thou art, my child. Yet it is not the
rule of our maiden queen my foreboding spirit dreads; 'tis that on such
a slender thread as her young life suspends the well-doing or the ruin
of her kingdom. If she be permitted to live and reign over us, all may
be well; 'tis on the event of her death for which I tremble."

"Wait till the evil day cometh then, my father; bring it not nearer by
anticipation; and should indeed such be, thinkest thou not there are
bold hearts and loyal souls to guard our land from foreign foe, and give
the rightful heir his due?"

"I know not, Isabella. There remain but few with the pure Scottish blood
within their veins, and it is but to them our land is so dear: they
would peril life and limb in her defence. It is not to the proud baron
descended from the intruding Norman, and thinking only of his knightly
sports and increase of wealth, by it matters not what war. Nor dare we
look with confidence to the wild chiefs of the north and the Lords of
the Isles; eager to enlarge their own dominions, to extend the terrors
of their name, they will gladly welcome the horrors and confusion that
may arise; and have we true Scottish blood enough to weigh against
these, my child? Alas! Isabella, our only hope is in the health and
well-doing of our queen, precarious as that is; but if she fail us, woe
to Scotland!"

The young Isabella could not bring forward any solid arguments in answer
to this reasoning, and therefore she was silent; but she felt her
Scottish blood throb quicker in her veins, as he spoke of the few pure
Scottish men remaining, and inwardly vowed, woman as she was, to devote
both energy and life to her country and its sovereign.

Unhappily for his children, though perhaps fortunately for himself, the
Earl of Fife was spared the witnessing in the miseries of his country
how true had been his forebodings. Two years after the death of his
king, he was found dead in his bed, not without strong suspicion of
poison. Public rumor pointed to his uncle, Macduff of Glamis, as the
instigator, if not the actual perpetrator of the deed; but as no decided
proof could be alleged against him, and the High Courts of Scotland not
seeming inclined to pursue the investigation, the rumor ceased, and
Macduff assumed, with great appearance of zeal, the guardianship of the
young Earl of Fife and his sister, an office bequeathed to him under the
hand and seal of the earl, his nephew.

The character of the Lady Isabella was formed; that of her brother, a
child of eight, of course was not; and the deep, voiceless suffering her
father's loss occasioned her individually was painfully heightened by
the idea that to her young brother his death was an infinitely greater
misfortune than to herself. He indeed knew not, felt not the agony which
bound her; he knew not the void which was on her soul; how utterly,
unspeakably lonely that heart had become, accustomed as it had been to
repose its every thought, and hope, and wish, and feeling on a parent's
love; yet notwithstanding this, her clear mind felt and saw that while
for herself there was little fear that she should waver in those
principles so carefully instilled, for her brother there was much, very
much to dread. She did not and could not repose confidence in her
kinsman; for her parent's sake she struggled to prevent dislike, to
compel belief that the suavity, even kindness of his manner, the
sentiments which he expressed, had their foundation in sincerity; but
when her young brother became solely and entirely subject to his
influence, she could no longer resist the conviction that their guardian
was not the fittest person for the formation of a patriot. She could
not, she would not believe the rumor which had once, but once, reached
her ears, uniting the hitherto pure line of Macduff with midnight
murder; her own noble mind rejected the idea as a thing utterly and
wholly impossible, the more so perhaps, as she knew her father had been
latterly subject to an insidious disease, baffling all the leech's art,
and which he himself had often warned her would terminate suddenly; yet
still an inward shuddering would cross her heart at times, when in his
presence; she could not define the cause, or why she felt it sometimes
and not always, and so she sought to subdue it, but she sought in vain.

Meanwhile an event approached materially connected with the Lady
Isabella, and whose consummation the late Thane of Fife had earnestly
prayed he might have been permitted to hallow with his blessing.
Alexander Comyn, Earl of Buchan and High Constable of Scotland, had been
from early youth the brother in arms and dearest friend of the Earl of
Fife, and in the romantic enthusiasm which ever characterized the
companionship of chivalry, they had exchanged a mutual vow that in after
years, should heaven grant them children, a yet nearer and dearer tie
should unite their houses. The birth of Isabella, two years after that
of an heir to Buchan, was hailed with increased delight by both fathers,
and from her earliest years she was accustomed to look to the Lord John
as her future husband. Perhaps had they been much thrown together,
Isabella's high and independent spirit would have rebelled against this
wish of her father, and preferred the choosing for herself; but from the
ages of eleven and nine they had been separated, the Earl of Buchan
sending his son, much against the advice of his friend, to England,
imagining that there, and under such a knight as Prince Edward, he would
better learn the noble art of war and all chivalric duties, than in the
more barbarous realm of Scotland. To Isabella, then, her destined
husband was a stranger; yet with a heart too young and unsophisticated
to combat her parent's wishes, by any idea of its affections becoming
otherwise engaged, and judging of the son by the father, to whom she was
ever a welcome guest, and who in himself was indeed a noble example of
chivalry and honor, Isabella neither felt nor expressed any repugnance
to her father's wish, that she should sign her name to a contract of
betrothal, drawn up by the venerable abbot of Buchan, and to which the
name of Lord John had been already appended; it was the lingering echoes
of that deep, yet gentle voice, blessing her compliance to his wishes,
which thrilled again and again to her heart, softening her grief, even
when that beloved voice was hushed forever, and she had no thought, no
wish to recall that promise, nay, even looked to its consummation with
joy, as a release from the companionship, nay, as at times she felt, the
wardance of her kinsman.

But this calm and happy frame of mind was not permitted to be of long
continuance. In one of the brief intervals of Macduff's absence from the
castle, about eighteen months after her father's death, the young earl
prevailed on the aged retainer in whose charge he had been left, to
consent to his going forth to hunt the red deer, a sport of which, boy
as he was, he was passionately fond. In joyous spirits, and attended by
a gallant train, he set out, calling for and receiving the ready
sympathy of his sister, who rejoiced as himself in his emancipation from
restraint, which either was, or seemed to be, adverse to the usual
treatment of noble youths.

Somewhat sooner than Isabella anticipated, they returned. Earl Duncan,
with a wilfulness which already characterized him, weary of the extreme
watchfulness of his attendants, who, in their anxiety to keep him from
danger, checked and interfered with his boyish wish to signalize himself
by some daring deed of agility and skill, at length separated himself,
except from one or two as wilful, and but little older than himself. The
young lord possessed all the daring of his race, but skill and foresight
he needed greatly, and dearly would he have paid for his rashness. A
young and fiery bull had chanced to cross his path, and disregarding the
entreaties of his followers, he taunted them with cowardice, and goaded
the furious animal to the encounter; too late he discovered that he had
neither skill nor strength for the combat he had provoked, and had it
not been for the strenuous exertions of a stranger youth, who diverted
aside the fury of the beast, he must have fallen a victim to his
thoughtless daring. Curiously, and almost enviously, he watched the
combat between the stranger and the bull, nor did any emotion of
gratitude rise in the boy's breast to soften the bitterness with which
he regarded the victory of the former, which the reproaches of his
retainers, who at that instant came up, and their condemnation of his
folly, did not tend to diminish; and almost sullenly he passed to the
rear, on their return, leaving Sir Malise Duff to make the
acknowledgments, which should have come from him, and courteously invite
the young stranger to accompany them home, an invitation which, somewhat
to the discomposure of Earl Duncan, was accepted.

If the stranger had experienced any emotion of anger from the boy's
slight of his services, the gratitude of the Lady Isabella would have
banished it on the instant, and amply repaid them; with cheeks glowing,
eyes glistening, and a voice quivering with suppressed emotion, she had
spoken her brief yet eloquent thanks; and had he needed further proof,
the embrace she lavished on her young brother, as reluctantly, and after
a long interval, he entered the hall, said yet more than her broken
words.

"Thou art but a fool, Isabella, craving thy pardon," was his ungracious
address, as he sullenly freed himself from her. "Had I brought thee the
bull's horns, there might have been some cause for this marvellously
warm welcome; but as it is--"

"I joy thou wert not punished for thy rashness, Duncan. Yet 'twas not in
such mood I hoped to find thee; knowest thou that 'tis to yon brave
stranger thou owest thy life?"

"Better it had been forfeited, than that he should stand between me and
mine honor. I thank him not for it, nor owe him aught like gratitude."

"Peace, ungrateful boy, an thou knowest not thy station better," was his
sister's calm, yet dignified reply; and the stranger smiled, and by his
courteous manner, speedily dismissed her fears as to the impression of
her brother's words, regarding them as the mere petulance of a child.

Days passed, and still the stranger lingered; eminently handsome, his
carriage peculiarly graceful, and even dignified, although it was
evident, from the slight, and as it were, unfinished roundness of his
figure, that he was but in the first stage of youth, yet his discourse
and manner were of a kind that would bespeak him noble, even had his
appearance been less convincing. According to the custom of the time,
which would have deemed the questioning a guest as to his name and
family a breach of all the rules of chivalry and hospitality, he
remained unknown.

"Men call me Sir Robert, though I have still my spurs to win," he had
once said, laughingly, to Lady Isabella and her kinsman, Sir Malise
Duff, "but I would not proclaim my birth till I may bring it honor."

A month passed ere their guest took his departure, leaving regard and
regret behind him, in all, perhaps, save in the childish breast of Earl
Duncan, whose sullen manner had never changed. There was a freshness and
light-heartedness, and a wild spirit of daring gallantry about the
stranger that fascinated, men scarce knew wherefore; a reckless
independence of sentiment which charmed, from the utter absence of all
affectation which it comprised. To all, save to the Lady Isabella, he
was a mere boy, younger even than his years; but in conversation with
her his superior mind shone forth, proving he could in truth appreciate
hers, and give back intellect for intellect, feeling for feeling;
perhaps her beauty and unusual endowments had left their impression upon
him. However it may be, one day, one little day after the departure of
Sir Robert, Isabella woke to the consciousness that the calm which had
so long rested on her spirit bad departed, and forever; and to what had
it given place? Had she dared to love, she, the betrothed, the promised
bride of another? No; she could not have sunk thus low, her heart had
been too long controlled to rebel now. She might not, she would not
listen to its voice, to its wild, impassioned throbs. Alas! she
miscalculated her own power; the fastnesses she had deemed secure were
forced; they closed upon their subtle foe, and held their conqueror
prisoner.

But Isabella was not one to waver in a determination when once formed;
how might she break asunder links which the dead had hallowed? She
became the bride of Lord John; she sought with her whole soul to forget
the past, and love him according to her bridal vow, and as time passed
she ceased to think of that beautiful vision of her early youth, save as
a dream that had had no resting; and a mother's fond yearnings sent
their deep delicious sweetness as oil on the troubled waters of her
heart. She might have done this, but unhappily she too soon discovered
her husband was not one to aid her in her unsuspected task, to soothe
and guide, and by his affection demand her gratitude and reverence.
Enwrapped in selfishness or haughty indifference, his manner towards her
ever harsh, unbending, and suspicious, Isabella's pride would have
sustained her, had not her previous trial lowered her in self-esteem;
but as it was, meekly and silently she bore with the continued outbreak
of unrestrained passion, and never wavered from the path of duty her
clear mind had laid down.

On the birth of a son, however, her mind regained its tone, and inwardly
yet solemnly she vowed that no mistaken sense of duty to her husband
should interfere with the education of her son. As widely opposed as
were their individual characters, so were the politics of the now Earl
and Countess of Buchan. Educated in England, on friendly terms with her
king, he had, as the Earl of Fife anticipated, lost all nationality, all
interest in Scotland, and as willingly and unconcernedly taken the vows
of homage to John Baliol, as the mere representative and lieutenant of
Edward, as he would have done to a free and unlimited king. He had been
among the very first to vote for calling in the King of England as
umpire; the most eager to second and carry out all Edward's views, and
consequently high in that monarch's favor, a reputation which his enmity
to the house of Bruce, one of the most troublesome competitors of the
crown, did not tend to diminish. Fortunately perhaps for Isabella, the
bustling politics of her husband constantly divided them. The births of
a daughter and son had no effect in softening his hard and selfish
temper; he looked on them more as incumbrances than pleasures, and
leaving the countess in the strong Tower of Buchan, he himself, with a
troop of armed and mounted Comyns, attached himself to the court and
interests of Edward, seeming to forget that such beings as a wife and
children had existence. Months, often years, would stretch between the
earl's visits to his mountain home, and then a week was the longest
period of his lingering; but no evidence of a gentler spirit or of less
indifference to his children was apparent, and years seemed to have
turned to positive evil, qualities which in youth had merely seemed
unamiable.

Desolate as the situation of the countess might perhaps appear, she
found solace and delight in moulding the young minds of her children
according to the pure and elevated cast of her own. All the
long-suppressed tenderness of her nature was lavished upon them, and on
their innocent love she sought to rest the passionate yearnings of her
own. She taught them to be patriots, in the purest, most beautiful
appropriation of the term,--to spurn the yoke of the foreigner, and the
oppressor, however light and flowery the links of that yoke might seem.
She could not bid them love and revere their father as she longed to do,
but she taught them that where their duty to their country and their
free and unchained king interfered not, in all things they must obey and
serve their father, and seek to win his love.

Once only had the Countess of Buchan beheld the vision which had crossed
her youth. He had come, it seemed unconscious of his track, and asked
hospitality for a night, evidently without knowing who was the owner of
the castle; perhaps his thoughts were preoccupied, for a deep gloom was
on his brow, and though he had started with evident pleasure when
recognizing his beautiful hostess, the gloom speedily resumed
ascendency. It was but a few weeks after the fatal battle of Falkirk,
and therefore Isabella felt there was cause enough for depression and
uneasiness. The graces of boyhood had given place to a finished
manliness of deportment, a calmer expression of feature, denoting that
years had changed and steadied the character, even as the form. He then
seemed as one laboring under painful and heavy thought, as one brooding
over some mighty change within, as if some question of weighty import
were struggling with recollections and visions of the past. He had
spoken little, evidently shrinking in pain from all reference to or
information on the late engagement. He tarried not long, departing with
dawn next day, and they did not meet again.

And what had been the emotions of the countess? perhaps her heart had
throbbed, and her cheek paled and flushed, at this unexpected meeting
with one she had fervently prayed never to see again; but not one
feeling obtained ascendency in that heart which she would have dreaded
to unveil to the eye of her husband. She did indeed feel that had her
lot been cast otherwise, it must have been a happy one, but the thought
was transient. She was a wife, a mother, and in the happiness of her
children, her youth, and all its joys and pangs, and dreams and hopes,
were merged, to be recalled no more.

The task of instilling patriotic sentiments in the breast of her son had
been insensibly aided by the countess's independent position amid the
retainers of Buchan. This earldom had only been possessed by the family
of Comyn since the latter years of the reign of William the Lion,
passing into their family by the marriage of Margaret Countess of Buchan
with Sir William Comyn, a knight of goodly favor and repute. This
interpolation and ascendency of strangers was a continual source of
jealousy and ire to the ancient retainers of the olden heritage, and
continually threatened to break out into open feud, had not the soothing
policy of the Countess Margaret and her descendants, by continually
employing them together in subjecting other petty clans, contrived to
keep them in good humor. As long as their lords were loyal to Scotland
and her king, and behaved so as to occasion no unpleasant comparison
between them and former superiors, all went on smoothly; but the haughty
and often outrageous conduct of the present earl, his utter neglect of
their interests, his treasonous politics, speedily roused the slumbering
fire into flame. A secret yet solemn oath went round the clan, by which
every fighting man bound himself to rebel against their master, rather
than betray their country by siding with a foreign tyrant; to desert
their homes, their all, and disperse singly midst the fastnesses and
rocks of Scotland, than lift up a sword against her freedom. The
sentiments of the countess were very soon discovered; and even yet
stronger than the contempt and loathing with which they looked upon the
earl was the love, the veneration they bore to her and to her children.
If his mother's lips had been silent, the youthful heir would have
learned loyalty and patriotism from his brave though unlettered
retainers, as it was to them he owed the skin and grace with which he
sate his fiery steed, and poised his heavy lance, and wielded his
stainless brand--to them he owed all the chivalric accomplishments of
the day; and though he had never quitted the territories of Buchan, he
would have found few to compete with him in his high and gallant spirit.

Dark and troubled was the political aspect of unhappy Scotland, at the
eventful period at which our tale commences. The barbarous and most
unjust execution of Sir William Wallace had struck the whole country as
with a deadly panic, from which it seemed there was not one to rise to
cast aside the heavy chains, whose weight it seemed had crushed the
whole kingdom, and taken from it the last gleams of patriotism and of
hope. Every fortress of strength and consequence was in possession of
the English. English soldiers, English commissioners, English judges,
laws, and regulations now filled and governed Scotland. The abrogation
of all those ancient customs, which had descended from the Celts and
Picts, and Scots, fell upon the hearts of all true Scottish men as the
tearing asunder the last links of freedom, and branding them as slaves.
Her principal nobles, strangely and traitorously, preferred safety and
wealth, in the acknowledgment and servitude of Edward, to glory and
honor in the service of their country; and the spirits of the middle
ranks yet spurned the inglorious yoke, and throbbed but for one to lead
them on, if not to victory, at least to an honorable death. That one
seemed not to rise; it was as if the mighty soul of Scotland had
departed, when Wallace slept in death.




CHAPTER III.


A bustling and joyous aspect did the ancient town of Scone present near
the end of March, 1306. Subdued indeed, and evidently under some
restraint and mystery, which might be accounted for by the near vicinity
of the English, who were quartered in large numbers over almost the
whole of Perthshire; some, however, appeared exempt from these most
unwelcome guests. The nobles, esquires, yeomen, and peasants--all, by
their national garb and eager yet suppressed voices, might be known at
once as Scotsmen right and true.

It had been long, very long since the old quiet town had witnessed such
busy groups and such eager tongues as on all sides thronged it now; the
very burghers and men of handicraft wore on their countenances tokens of
something momentous. There were smiths' shops opening on every side,
armorers at work, anvils clanging, spears sharpening, shields
burnishing, bits and steel saddles and sharp spurs meeting the eye at
every turn. Ever and anon, came a burst of enlivening music, and well
mounted and gallantly attired, attended by some twenty or fifty
followers, as may be, would gallop down some knight or noble, his armor
flashing back a hundred fold the rays of the setting sun; his silken
pennon displayed, the device of which seldom failed to excite a hearty
cheer from the excited crowds; his stainless shield and heavy spear
borne by his attendant esquires; his vizor up, as if he courted and
dared recognition; his surcoat, curiously and tastefully embroidered;
his gold or silver-sheathed and hilted sword suspended by the silken
sash of many folds and brilliant coloring. On foot or on horseback,
these noble cavaliers were continually passing and repassing the ancient
streets, singly or in groups; then there were their followers, all
carefully and strictly armed, in the buff coat plaited with steel, the
well-quilted bonnet, the huge broadsword; Highlanders in their peculiar
and graceful costume; even the stout farmers, who might also be found
amongst this motley assemblage, wearing the iron hauberk and sharp sword
beneath their apparently peaceful garb. Friars in their gray frocks and
black cowls, and stately burghers and magistrates, in their velvet
cloaks and gold chains, continually mingled their peaceful forms with
their more warlike brethren, and lent a yet more varied character to the
stirring picture.

Varied as were the features of this moving multitude, the expression on
every countenance, noble and follower, yeoman and peasant, burgher and
even monk, was invariably the same--a species of strong yet suppressed
excitement, sometimes shaded by anxiety, sometimes lighted by hope,
almost amounting to triumph; sometimes the dark frown of scorn and hate
would pass like a thunder-cloud over noble brows, and the mailed hand
unconsciously clutched the sword; and then the low thrilling laugh of
derisive contempt would disperse the shade, and the muttered oath of
vengeance drown the voice of execration. It would have been a strange
yet mighty study, the face of man in that old town; but men were all too
much excited to observe their fellows, to them it was enough--unspoken,
unimparted wisdom as it was--to know, to feel, one common feeling bound
that varied mass of men, one mighty interest made them brothers.

The ancient Palace of Scone, so long unused, was now evidently the
head-quarters of the noblemen hovering about the town, for whatever
purpose they were there assembled. The heavy flag of Scotland, in all
its massive quarterings, as the symbol of a free unfettered kingdom,
waved from the centre tower; archers and spearmen lined the courts,
sentinels were at their posts, giving and receiving the watchword from
all who passed and repassed the heavy gates, which from dawn till
nightfall were flung wide open, as if the inmates of that regal dwelling
were ever ready to receive their friends, and feared not the approach of
foes.

The sun, though sinking, was still bright, when the slow and dignified
approach of the venerable abbot of Scone occasioned some stir and bustle
amidst the joyous occupants of the palace yard; the wild joke was
hushed, the noisy brawl subsided, the games of quoit and hurling the bar
a while suspended, and the silence of unaffected reverence awaited the
good old man's approach and kindly-given benediction. Leaving his
attendants in one of the lower rooms, the abbot proceeded up the massive
stone staircase, and along a broad and lengthy passage, darkly panelled
with thick oak, then pushing aside some heavy arras, stood within one of
the state chambers, and gave his fervent benison on one within. This was
a man in the earliest and freshest prime of life, that period uniting
all the grace and beauty of youth with the mature thought, and steady
wisdom, and calmer views of manhood. That he was of noble birth and
blood and training one glance sufficed; peculiarly and gloriously
distinguished in the quiet majesty of his figure, in the mild attempered
gravity of his commanding features. Nature herself seemed to have marked
him out for the distinguished part it was his to play. Already there
were lines of thought upon the clear and open brow, and round the mouth;
and the blue eye shone with that calm, steady lustre, which seldom comes
till the changeful fire and wild visions of dreamy youth have departed.
His hair, of rich and glossy brown, fell in loose natural curls on
either side his face, somewhat lower than his throat, shading his
cheeks, which, rather pale than otherwise, added to the somewhat grave
aspect of his countenance; his armor of steel, richly and curiously
inlaid with burnished gold, sat lightly and easily upon his peculiarly
tall and manly figure; a sash, of azure silk and gold, suspended his
sword, whose sheath was in unison with the rest of his armor, though the
hilt was studded with gems. His collar was also of gold, as were his
gauntlets, which with his helmet rested on a table near him; a coronet
of plain gold surmounted his helmet, and on his surcoat, which lay on a
seat at the further end of the room, might be discerned the rampant lion
of Scotland, surmounted by a crown.

The apartment in which he stood, though shorn of much of that splendor
which, ere the usurping invasion of Edward of England, had distinguished
it, still bore evidence of being a chamber of some state. The hangings
were of dark-green velvet embroidered, and with a very broad fringe of
gold; drapery of the same costly material adorned the broad casements,
which stood in heavy frames of oak, black as ebony. Large folding-doors,
with panels of the same beautiful material, richly carved, opened into
an ante-chamber, and thence to the grand staircase and more public parts
of the building. In this ante-chamber were now assembled pages,
esquires, and other officers bespeaking a royal household, though much
less numerous than is generally the case.

"Sir Edward and the young Lord of Douglas have not returned, sayest
thou, good Athelbert? Knowest thou when and for what went they forth?"
were the words which were spoken by the noble we have described, as the
abbot entered, unperceived at first, from his having avoided the public
entrance to the state rooms; they were addressed to an esquire, who,
with cap in hand and head somewhat lowered, respectfully awaited the
commands of his master.

"They said not the direction of their course, my liege; 'tis thought to
reconnoitre either the movements of the English, or to ascertain the
cause of the delay of the Lord of Fife. They departed at sunrise, with
but few followers."

"On but a useless errand, good Athelbert, methinks, an they hope to
greet Earl Duncan, save with a host of English at his back. Bid Sir
Edward hither, should he return ere nightfall, and see to the instant
delivery of those papers; I fear me, the good lord bishop has waited for
them; and stay--Sir Robert Keith, hath he not yet returned?"

"No, good my lord."

"Ha! he tarrieth long," answered the noble, musingly. "Now heaven
forefend no evil hath befallen him; but to thy mission, Athelbert, I
must not detain thee with doubts and cavil. Ha! reverend father, right
welcome," he added, perceiving him as he turned again to the table, on
the esquire reverentially withdrawing from his presence, and bending his
head humbly in acknowledgment of the abbot's benediction. "Thou findest
me busied as usual. Seest thou," he pointed to a rough map of Scotland
lying before him, curiously intersected with mystic lines and crosses,
"Edinburgh, Berwick, Roxburgh, Lanark, Stirling, Dumbarton, in the power
of, nay peopled, by English. Argyle on the west, Elgin, Aberdeen, with
Banff eastward, teeming with proud, false Scots, hereditary foes to the
Bruce, false traitors to their land; the north--why, 'tis the same foul
tale; and yet I dare to raise my banner, dare to wear the crown, and
fling defiance in the teeth of all. What sayest thou, father--is't not a
madman's deed?"

All appearance of gravity vanished from his features as he spoke. His
eye, seemingly so mild, flashed till its very color could not have been
distinguished, his cheek glowed, his lip curled, and his voice, ever
peculiarly rich and sonorous, deepened with the excitement of soul.

"Were the fate of man in his own hands, were it his and his alone to
make or mar his destiny, I should e'en proclaim thee mad, my son, and
seek to turn thee from thy desperate purpose; but it is not so. Man is
but an instrument, and He who urged thee to this deed, who wills not
this poor land to rest enslaved, will give thee strength and wisdom for
its freedom. His ways are not as man's; and circled as thou seemest with
foes, His strength shall bring thee forth and gird thee with His glory.
Thou wouldst not turn aside, my son--thou fearest not thy foes?"

"Fear! holy father: it is a word unknown to the children of the Bruce! I
do but smile at mine extensive kingdom--of some hundred acres square;
smile at the eagerness with which they greet me liege and king, as if
the words, so long unused, should now do double duty for long absence."

"And better so, my son," answered the old man, cheerfully. "Devotion to
her destined savior argues well for bonny Scotland; better do homage
unto thee as liege and king, though usurpation hath abridged thy
kingdom, than to the hireling of England's Edward, all Scotland at his
feet. Men will not kneel to sceptred slaves, nor freemen fight for
tyrants' tools. Sovereign of Scotland thou art, thou shalt be, Robert
the Bruce! Too long hast thou kept back; but now, if arms can fight and
hearts can pray, thou shalt be king of Scotland."

The abbot spoke with a fervor, a spirit which, though perhaps little
accordant with his clerical character, thrilled to the Bruce's heart. He
grasped the old man's hand.

"Holy father," he said, "thou wouldst inspire hearts with ardor needing
inspiration more than mine; and to me thou givest hope, and confidence,
and strength. Too long have I slept and dreamed," his countenance
darkened, and his voice was sadder; "fickle in purpose, uncertain in
accomplishment; permitting my youth to moulder 'neath the blasting
atmosphere of tyranny. Yet will I now atone for the neglected past.
Atone! aye, banish it from the minds of men. My country hath a claim, a
double claim upon me; she calls upon me, trumpet-tongued, to arise,
avenge her, and redeem my misspent youth. Nor shall she call on me in
vain, so help me, gracious heaven!"

"Amen," fervently responded the abbot; and the king continued more
hurriedly--

"And that stain, that blot, father? Is there mercy in heaven to wash its
darkness from my soul, or must it linger there forever preying on my
spirit, dashing e'en its highest hopes and noblest dreams with poison,
whispering its still voice of accusation, even when loudest rings the
praise and love of men? Is there no rest for this, no silence for that
whisper? Penitence, atonement, any thing thou wilt, let but my soul be
free!" Hastily, and with step and countenance disordered, he traversed
the chamber, his expressive countenance denoting the strife within.

"It was, in truth, a rash and guilty deed, my son," answered the abbot,
gravely, yet mildly, "and one that heaven in its justice will scarce
pass unavenged. Man hath given thee the absolution accorded to the true
and faithful penitent, for such thou art; yet scarcely dare we hope
offended heaven is appeased. Justice will visit thee with trouble--sore,
oppressing, grievous trouble. Yet despair not: thou wilt come forth the
purer, nobler, brighter, from the fire; despair not, but as a child
receive a father's chastening; lean upon that love, which wills not
death, but penitence and life; that love, which yet will bring thee
forth and bless this land in thee. My son, be comforted; His mercy is
yet greater than thy sin."

"And blest art thou, my father, for these _blessed_ words; a messenger
in truth thou art of peace and love; and oh, if prayers and penitence
avail, if sore temptation may be pleaded, I shall, I shall be pardoned.
Yet would I give my dearest hopes of life, of fame, of all--save
Scotland's freedom--that this evil had not chanced; that blood, his
blood--base traitor as he was--was not upon my hand."

"And can it be thou art such craven, Robert, as to repent a Comyn's
death--a Comyn, and a traitor--e'en though his dastard blood be on thy
hand?--bah! An' such deeds weigh heavy on thy mind, a friar's cowl were
better suited to thy brow than Scotland's diadem."

The speaker was a tall, powerful man, somewhat younger in appearance
than the king, but with an expression of fierceness and haughty pride,
contrasting powerfully with the benevolent and native dignity which so
characterized the Bruce. His voice was as harsh as his manner was
abrupt; yet that he was brave, nay, rash in his unthinking daring, a
very transient glance would suffice to discover.

"I forgive thee thine undeserved taunt, Edward," answered the king,
calmly, though the hot blood rushed up to his cheek and brow. "I trust,
ere long, to prove thy words are as idle as the mood which prompted
them. I feel not that repentance cools the patriot fire which urges me
to strike for Scotland's weal--that sorrow for a hated crime unfits me
for a warrior. I would not Comyn lived, but that he had met a traitor's
fate by other hands than mine; been judged--condemned, as his black
treachery called for; even for our country's sake, it had been better
thus."

"Thou art over-scrupulous, my liege and brother, and I too hasty,"
replied Sir Edward Bruce, in the same bold, careless tone. "Yet beshrew
me, but I think that in these times a sudden blow and hasty fate the
only judgment for a traitor. The miscreant were too richly honored, that
by thy royal hand he fell."

"My son, my son, I pray thee, peace," urged the abbot, in accents of
calm, yet grave authority. "As minister of heaven, I may not list such
words. Bend not thy brow in wrath, clad as thou art in mail, in youthful
might; yet in my Maker's cause this withered frame is stronger yet than
thou art. Enough of that which hath been. Thy sovereign spoke in lowly
penitence to me--to me, who frail and lowly unto thee, am yet the
minister of Him whom sin offends. To thee he stands a warrior and a
king, who rude irreverence may brook not, even from his brother. Be
peace between us, then, my son; an old man's blessing on thy fierce yet
knightly spirit rest."

With a muttered oath Sir Edward had strode away at the abbot's first
words, but the cloud passed from his brow as he concluded, and slightly,
yet with something of reverence, he bowed his head.

"And whither didst thou wend thy way, my fiery brother?" demanded
Robert. "Bringest thou aught of news, or didst thou and Douglas but set
foot in stirrup and hand on rein simply from weariness of quiet?"

"In sober truth, 'twas even so; partly to mark the movements of the
English, an they make a movement, which, till Pembroke come, they are
all too much amazed to do; partly to see if in truth that poltroon
Duncan of Fife yet hangs back and still persists in forswearing the
loyalty of his ancestors, and leaving to better hands the proud task of
placing the crown of Scotland on thy head."

"And thou art convinced at last that such and such only is his
intention?" The knight nodded assent, and Bruce continued, jestingly,
"And so thou mightst have been long ago, my sage brother, hadst thou
listened to me. I tell thee Earl Duncan hath a spite against me, not for
daring to raise the standard of freedom and proclaim myself a king, but
for very hatred of myself. Nay, hast thou not seen it thyself, when,
fellow-soldiers, fellow-seekers of the banquet, tournay, or ball, he
hath avoided, shunned me? and why should he seek me now?"

"Why? does not Scotland call him, Scotland bid him gird his sword and
don his mail? Will not the dim spectres of his loyal line start from
their very tombs to call him to thy side, or brand him traitor and
poltroon, with naught of Duff about him but the name? Thou smilest."

"At thy violence, good brother. Duncan of Fife loves better the silken
cords of peace and pleasure, e'en though those silken threads hide
chains, than the trumpet's voice and weight of mail. In England bred,
courted, flattered by her king, 'twere much too sore a trouble to excite
his anger and lose his favor; and for whom, for what?--to crown the man
he hateth from his soul?"

"And knowest thou wherefore, good my son, in what thou hast offended?"

"Offended, holy father? Nay, in naught unless perchance a service
rendered when a boy--a simple service, merely that of saving life--hath
rendered him the touchy fool he is. But hark! who comes?"

The tramping of many horses, mingled with the eager voices of men,
resounded from the courtyard as he spoke, and Sir Edward strode hastily
to the casement. "Sir Robert Keith returned!" he exclaimed, joyfully;
"and seemingly right well attended. Litters too--bah! we want no more
women. 'Tis somewhat new for Keith to be a squire of dames. Why, what
banner is this? The black bear of Buchan--impossible! the earl is a foul
Comyn. I'll to the court, for this passes my poor wits." He turned
hastily to quit the chamber, as a youth entered, not without some
opposition, it appeared, from the attendants without, but eagerly he had
burst through them, and flung his plumed helmet from his beautiful brow,
and, after glancing hastily round the room, bounded to the side of
Robert, knelt at his feet, and clasped his knees without uttering a
syllable, voiceless from an emotion whose index was stamped upon his
glowing features.

"Nigel, by all that's marvellous, and as moon-stricken as his wont! Why,
where the foul fiend hast thou sprung from? Art dumb, thou foolish boy?
By St. Andrew, these are times to act and speak, not think and feel!
Whence comest thou?"

So spoke the impatient Edward, to whom the character of his youngest
brother had ever been a riddle, which it had been too much trouble to
expound, and that which it _seemed_ to his too careless thought he ever
looked upon with scorn and contempt. Not so, King Robert; he raised him
affectionately in his arms, and pressed him to his heart.

"Thou'rt welcome, most, most welcome, Nigel; as welcome as unlooked for.
But why this quick return from scenes and studies more congenial to thy
gentle nature, my young brother? this fettered land is scarce a home for
thee; thy free, thy fond imaginings can scarce have resting here." He
spoke sadly, and his smile unwittingly was sorrowful.

"And thinkest thou, Robert--nay, forgive me, good my liege--thinkest
thou, because I loved the poet's dream, because I turned, in sad and
lonely musing, from King Edward's court, I loved the cloister better
than the camp? Oh, do me not such wrong! thou knowest not the guidings
of my heart; nor needs it now, my sword shall better plead my cause than
can my tongue." He turned away deeply and evidently pained, and a half
laugh from Sir Edward prevented the king's reply.

"Well crowed, my pretty fledgling," he said, half jesting, half in
scorn. "But knowest thou, to fight in very earnest is something
different than to read and chant it in a minstrel's lay? Better hie thee
back to Florence, boy; the mail suit and crested helm are not for such
as thee--better shun them now, than after they are donned."

"How! darest thou, Edward? Edward, tempt me not too far," exclaimed
Nigel, his cheek flushing, and springing towards him, his hand upon his
half-drawn sword. "By heaven, wert thou not my mother's son, I would
compel thee to retract these words, injurious, unjust! How darest thou
judge me coward, till my cowardice is proved? Thy blood is not more red
than mine."

"Peace, peace! what meaneth this unseemly broil?" said Robert, hastily
advancing between them, for the dark features of Edward were lowering in
wrath, and Nigel was excited to unwonted fierceness. "Edward, begone!
and as thou saidst, see to Sir Robert Keith--what news he brings. Nigel,
on thy love, thy allegiance so lately proffered, if I read thy greeting
right, I pray thee heed not his taunting words. I do not doubt thee;
'twas for thy happiness, not for thy gallantry, I trembled. Look not
thus dejected;" he held out his hand, which his brother knelt to salute.
"Nay, nay, thou foolish boy, forget my new dignity a while, and now that
rude brawler has departed, tell me in sober wisdom, how camest thou
here? How didst thou know I might have need of thee?" A quick blush
suffused the cheek of the young man; he hesitated, evidently confused.
"Why, what ails thee, boy? By St. Andrew, Nigel, I do believe thou hast
never quitted Scotland."

"And if I have not, my lord, what wilt thou deem me?"

"A very strangely wayward boy, not knowing his own mind," replied the
king, smiling. "Yet why should I say so? I never asked thy confidence,
never sought it, or in any way returned or appreciated thy boyish love,
and why should I deem thee wayward, never inquiring into thy
projects--passing thee by, perchance, as a wild visionary, much happier
than myself?"

"And thou wilt think me yet more a visionary, I fear me, Robert; yet
thine interest is too dear to pass unanswered," rejoined Nigel, after
glancing round and perceiving they were alone, for the abbot had
departed with Sir Edward, seeking to tame his reckless spirit.

"Know, then, to aid me in keeping aloof from the tyrant of my country,
whom instinctively I hated, I confined myself to books and such lore yet
more than my natural inclination prompted, though that was strong
enough--I had made a solemn vow, rather to take the monk's cowl and
frock, than receive knighthood from the hand of Edward of England, or
raise my sword at his bidding. My whole soul yearned towards the country
of my fathers, that country which was theirs by royal right; and when
the renown of Wallace reached my ears, when, in my waking and sleeping
dreams, I beheld the patriot struggling for freedom, peace, the only one
whose arm had struck for Scotland, whose tongue had dared to speak
resistance, I longed wildly, intensely, vainly, to burst the thraldom
which held my race, and seek for death beneath the patriot banner. I
longed, yet dared not. My own death were welcome; but mother, father,
brothers, sisters, all were perilled, had I done so. I stood, I deemed,
alone in my enthusiast dreams; those I loved best, acknowledged, bowed
before the man my very spirit loathed; and how dared I, a boy, a child,
stand forth arraigning and condemning? But wherefore art thou thus,
Robert? oh, what has thus moved thee?"

Wrapped in his own earnest words and thoughts, Nigel had failed until
that moment to perceive the effect of his words upon his brother.
Robert's head had sunk upon his hand, and his whole frame shook beneath
some strong emotion; evidently striving to subdue it, some moments
elapsed ere he could reply, and then only in accents of bitter
self-reproach. "Why, why did not such thoughts come to me, instead of
thee?" he said. "My youth had not wasted then in idle folly--worse, oh,
worse--in slavish homage, coward indecision, flitting like the moth
around the destructive flame; and while I deemed thee buried in romantic
dreams, all a patriot's blood was rushing in thy veins, while mine was
dull and stagnant."

"But to flow forth the brighter, my own brother," interrupted Nigel,
earnestly. "Oh, I have watched thee, studied thee, even as I loved thee,
long; and I have hoped, felt, _known_ that this day would dawn; that
thou _wouldst_ rise for Scotland, and she would rise for thee. Ah, now
thou smilest as thyself, and I will to my tale. The patriot died--let me
not utter how; no Scottish tongue should speak those words, save with
the upraised arm and trumpet shout of vengeance! I could not rest in
England then; I could not face the tyrant who dared proclaim and execute
as traitor the noblest hero, purest patriot, that ever walked this
earth. But men said I sought the lyric schools, the poet's haunts in
Provence, and I welcomed the delusion; but it was to Scotland that I
came, unknown, and silently, to mark if with her Wallace all life and
soul had fled. I saw enough to know that were there but a fitting head,
her hardy sons would struggle yet for freedom--but not yet; that chief
art thou, and at the close of the last year I took passage to Denmark,
intending to rest there till Scotland called me."

"And 'tis thence thou comest, Nigel? Can it be, intelligence of my
movements hath reached so far north already?" inquired the king,
somewhat surprised at the abruptness of his brother's pause.

"Not so, my liege. The vessel which bore me was wrecked off the breakers
of Buchan, and cast me back again to the arms of Scotland. I found
hospitality, shelter, kindness; nay more, were this a time and place to
speak of happy, trusting love--" he added, turning away from the Bruce's
penetrating eye, "and week after week passed, and found me still an
inmate of the Tower of Buchan."

"Buchan!" interrupted the king, hastily; "the castle of a Comyn, and
thou speakest of love!"

"Of as true, as firm-hearted a Scottish patriot, my liege, as ever lived
in the heart of woman--one that has naught of Comyn about her or her
fair children but the name, as speedily thou wilt have proof. But in
good time is my tale come to a close, for hither comes good Sir Robert,
and other noble knights, who, by their eager brows, methinks, have
matters of graver import for thy grace's ear."

They entered as he spoke. The patriot nobles who, at the first call of
their rightful king, had gathered round his person, few in number, yet
firm in heart, ready to lay down fame, fortune, life, beside his
standard, rather than acknowledge the foreign foe, who, setting aside
all principles of knightly honor, knightly faith, sought to claim their
country as his own, their persons as his slaves. Eager was the greeting
of each and all to the youthful Nigel, mingled with some surprise. Their
conference with the king was but brief, and as it comprised matters more
of speculation than of decided import, we will pass on to a later period
of the same evening.




CHAPTER IV.


"Buchan! the Countess of Buchan, sayest thou, Athelbert? nay, 'tis
scarce possible," said a fair and noble-looking woman, still in the
bloom of life, though early youth had passed, pausing on her way to the
queen's apartment, to answer some information given by the senior page.

"Indeed, madam, 'tis even so; she arrived but now, escorted by Sir
Robert Keith and his followers, in addition to some fifty of the
retainers of Buchan."

"And hath she lodging within the palace?"

"Yes, madam; an it please you, I will conduct you to her, 'tis but a
step beyond the royal suite."

She made him a sign of assent, and followed him slowly, as if musingly.

"It is strange, it is very strange," she thought, "yet scarcely so; she
was ever in heart and soul a patriot, nor has she seen enough of her
husband to change such sentiments. Yet, for her own sake, perchance it
had been better had she not taken this rash step; 'tis a desperate game
we play, and the fewer lives and fortunes wrecked the better."

Her cogitations were interrupted by hearing her name announced in a loud
voice by the page, and finding herself in presence of the object of her
thoughts.

"Isabella, dearest Isabella, 'tis even thine own dear self. I deemed the
boy's tale well-nigh impossible," was her hasty exclamation, as with a
much quicker step she advanced towards the countess, who met her
half-way, and warmly returned her embrace, saying as she did so--

"This is kind, indeed, dearest Mary, to welcome me so soon; 'tis long,
long years since we have met; but they have left as faint a shadow on
thy affections as on mine."

"Indeed, thou judgest me truly, Isabella. Sorrow, methinks, doth but
soften the heart and render the memory of young affections, youthful
pleasures, the more vivid, the more lasting: we think of what we have
been, or what we are, and the contrast heightens into perfect bliss that
which at the time, perchance, we deemed but perishable joy."

"Hast thou too learnt such lesson, Mary? I hoped its lore was all
unknown to thee."

"It was, indeed, deferred so long, so blessedly, I dared to picture
perfect happiness on earth; but since my husband's hateful captivity,
Isabella, there can be little for his wife but anxiety and dread. But
these--are these thine?" she added, gazing admiringly and tearfully on
Agnes and Alan, who had at their mother's sign advanced from the
embrasure, where they had held low yet earnest converse, and gracefully
acknowledged the stranger's notice. "Oh, wherefore bring them here, my
friend?"

"Wherefore, lady?" readily and impetuously answered Alan; "art thou a
friend of Isabella of Buchan, and asketh wherefore? Where our sovereign
is, should not his subjects be?"

"Thy mother's friend and sovereign's sister, noble boy, and yet I grieve
to see thee here. The Bruce is but in name a king, uncrowned as yet and
unanointed. His kingdom bounded by the confines of this one fair county,
struggling for every acre at the bright sword's point."

"The greater glory for his subjects, lady," answered the youth. "The
very act of proclaiming himself king removes the chains of Scotland, and
flings down her gage. Fear not, he shall be king ere long in something
more than name."

"And is it thus a Comyn speaks?" said the Lady Campbell. "Ah, were the
idle feuds of petty minds thus laid at rest, bold boy, thy dreams might
e'en be truth; but knowest thou, young man--knowest thou, Isabella, the
breach between the Comyn and the Bruce is widened, and, alas! by blood?"

"Aye, lady; but what boots it? A traitor should have no name, no kin, or
those who bear that name should wash away their race's stain by nobler
deeds of loyalty and valor."

"It would be well did others think with thee," replied Lady Campbell;
"yet I fear me in such sentiments the grandson of the loyal Fife will
stand alone. Isabella, dearest Isabella," she added, laying her hand on
the arm of the countess, and drawing her away from her children, "hast
thou done well in this decision? hast thou listened to the calmer voice
of prudence as was thy wont? hast thou thought on all the evils thou
mayest draw upon thy head, and upon these, so lovely and so dear?"

"Mary, I have thought, weighed, pondered, and yet I am here," answered
the countess, firmly, yet in an accent that still bespoke some inward
struggle. "I know, I feel all, all that thou wouldst urge; that I am
exposing my brave boy to death, perchance, by a father's hand, bringing
him hither to swear fealty, to raise his sword for the Bruce, in direct
opposition to my husband's politics, still more to his will; yet, Mary,
there are mutual duties between a parent and a child. My poor boy has
ever from his birth been fatherless. No kindly word, no glowing smile
has ever met his infancy, his boyhood. He scarce can know his
father--the love, the reverence of a son it would have been such joy to
teach. Left to my sole care, could I instil sentiments other than those
a father's lips bestowed on me? Could I instruct him in aught save
love, devotion to his country, to her rights, her king? I have done this
so gradually, my friend, that for the burst of loyalty, of impetuous
gallantry, which answered Sir Robert Keith's appeal, I was well nigh
unprepared. My father, my noble father breathes in my boy; and oh, Mary,
better, better far lose him on the battle-field, struggling for
Scotland's freedom, glorying in his fate, rejoicing, blessing me for
lessons I have taught, than see him as my husband, as my brother--alas!
alas! that I should live to say it--cringing as slaves before the
footstool of a tyrant and oppressor. Had he sought it, had he
loved--treated me as a wife, Mary, I would have given my husband
all--all a woman's duty--all, save the dictates of my soul, but even
this he trampled on, despised, rejected; and shall I, dare I then
forget, oppose the precepts of that noble heart, that patriot spirit
which breathed into mine the faint reflection of itself?--offend the
dead, the hallowed dead, my father--the heart that loved me?"

She paused, in strong, and for the moment overpowering, emotion. The
clear, rich tones had never faltered till she spoke of him beloved even
in death--faltered not, even when she spoke of death as the portion of
her child; it was but the quivering of lip and eye by which the anguish
of that thought could have been ascertained. Lady Campbell clasped her
hand.

"Thou hast in very truth silenced me, my Isabella," she said; "there is
no combating with thoughts as these. Thine is still the same noble soul,
exalted mind that I knew in youth: sorrow and time have had no power on
these."

"Save to chasten and to purify, I trust," rejoined the countess, in her
own calm tone. "Thrown back upon my own strength, it must have gathered
force, dear Mary, or have perished altogether. But thou speakest,
methinks, but too despondingly of our sovereign's prospects--are they
indeed so desperate?"

"Desperate, indeed, Isabella. Even his own family, with the sole
exception of that rash madman, Edward, must look upon it thus. How
thinkest thou Edward of England will brook this daring act of defiance,
of what he will deem rank apostasy and traitorous rebellion? Aged,
infirm as he is now, he will not permit this bold attempt to pass
unpunished. The whole strength of England will be gathered together,
and pour its devastating fury on this devoted land. And what to this has
Robert to oppose? Were he undisputed sovereign of Scotland, we might,
without cowardice, be permitted to tremble, threatened as he is; but
confined, surrounded by English, with scarce a town or fort to call his
own, his enterprise is madness, Isabella, patriotic as it may be."

"Oh, do not say so, Mary. Has he not some noble barons already by his
side? will not, nay, is not Scotland rising to support him? hath he not
the hearts, the prayers, the swords of all whose mountain homes and
freeborn rights are dearer than the yoke of Edward? and hath he not, if
rumor speaks aright, within himself a host--not mere valor alone, but
prudence, foresight, military skill--all, all that marks a general?"

"As rumor speaks. Thou dost not know him then?" inquired Lady Campbell.

"How could I, dearest? Hast thou forgotten thy anxiety that we should
meet, when we were last together, holding at naught, in thy merry mood,
my betrothment to Lord John--that I should turn him from his wandering
ways, and make him patriotic as myself? Thou seest, Mary, thy brother
needed not such influence."

"Of a truth, no," answered her friend; "for his present partner is a
very contrast to thyself, and would rather, by her weak and trembling
fears, dissuade him from his purpose than inspire and encourage it. Well
do I remember that fancy of my happy childhood, and still I wish it had
been so, all idle as it seems--strange that ye never met."

"Nay, save thyself, Mary, thy family resided more in England than in
Scotland, and for the last seventeen years the territory of Buchan has
been my only home, with little interruption to my solitude; yet I have
heard much of late of the Earl of Carrick, and from whom thinkest
thou?--thou canst not guess--even from thy noble brother Nigel."

"Nigel!" repeated Lady Mary, much surprised.

"Even so, sweet sister, learning dearer lore and lovelier tales than
even Provence could instil; 'tis not the land, it is the _heart_ where
poesie dwells," rejoined Nigel Bruce, gayly, advancing from the side of
Agnes, where he had been lingering the greater part of the dialogue
between his sister and the countess, and now joined them. "Aye, Mary,"
he continued, tenderly, "my own land is dearer than the land of song."

"And dear art thou to Scotland, Nigel; but I knew not thy fond dreams
and wild visions could find resting amid the desert crags and barren
plains of Buchan."

"Yet have we not been idle. Dearest Agnes, wilt thou not speak for me?
the viol hath not been mute, nor the fond harp unstrung; and deeper,
dearer lessons have thy lips instilled, than could have flowed from
fairest lips and sweetest songs of Provence. Nay, blush not, dearest.
Mary, thou must love this gentle girl," he added, as he led her forward,
and laid the hand of Agnes in his sister's.

"Is it so? then may we indeed be united, though not as I in my girlhood
dreamed, my Isabella," said Lady Campbell, kindly parting the clustering
curls, and looking fondly on the maiden's blushing face. She was about
to speak again, when steps were heard along the corridor, and
unannounced, unattended, save by the single page who drew aside the
hangings, King Robert entered. He had doffed the armor in which we saw
him first, for a plain yet rich suit of dark green velvet, cut and
slashed with cloth of gold, and a long mantle of the richest crimson,
secured at his throat by a massive golden clasp, from which gleamed the
glistening rays of a large emerald; a brooch of precious stones,
surrounded by diamonds, clasped the white ostrich feather in his cup,
and the shade of the drooping plume, heightened perhaps by the advance
of evening, somewhat obscured his features, but there was that in his
majestic mien, in the noble yet dignified bearing, which could not for
one moment be mistaken; and it needed not the word of Nigel to cause the
youthful Alan to spring from the couch where he had listlessly thrown
himself, and stand, suddenly silenced and abashed.

"My liege and brother," exclaimed Lady Campbell, eagerly, as she hastily
led forward the Countess of Buchan, who sunk at once on her knee,
overpowered by the emotion of a patriot, thinking only of her country,
only of her sovereign, as one inspired by heaven to attempt her rescue,
and give her freedom. "How glad am I that it has fallen on me to present
to your grace, in the noble Countess of Buchan, the chosen friend of my
girlhood, the only descendant of the line of Macduff worthy to bear that
name. Allied as unhappily she is to the family of Comyn, yet still,
still most truly, gloriously, a patriot and loyal subject of your grace,
as her being here, with all she holds most dear, most precious upon
earth, will prove far better than her friend's poor words."

"Were they most rich in eloquence, Mary, believe me, we yet should need
them not, in confirmation of this most noble lady's faithfulness and
worth," answered the king, with ready courtesy, and in accents that were
only too familiar to the ear of Isabella. She started, and gazed up for
the first time, seeing fully the countenance of the sovereign. "Rise,
lady, we do beseech you, rise; we are not yet so familiar with the forms
of royalty as to behold without some shame a noble lady at our feet.
Nay, thou art pale, very pale; thy coming hither hath been too rapid,
too hurried for thy strength, methinks; I do beseech you, sit." Gently
he raised her, and leading her gallantly to one of the cumbrous couches
near them, placed her upon it, and sat down beside her. "Ha! that is
well; thou art better now. Knowest thou, Mary, thine office would have
been more wisely performed, hadst thou presented _me_ to the Countess of
Buchan, not her to me."

"Thou speakest darkly, good my liege, yet I joy to see thee thus
jestingly inclined."

"Nay, 'tis no jest, fair sister; the Countess of Buchan and I have met
before, though she knew me but as a wild, heedless stripling first, and
a moody, discontented soldier afterwards. I owe thee much, gentle lady;
much for the night's lodging thy hospitality bestowed, though at the
time my mood was such it had no words of courtesy, no softening fancy,
even to thyself; much for the kindness thou didst bestow, not only then,
but when fate first threw us together; and therefore do I seek thee,
lady--therefore would I speak to thee, as the friend of former years,
not as the sovereign of Scotland, and as such received by thee." He
spoke gravely, with somewhat of sadness in his rich voice. Perhaps it
was well for the countess no other answer than a grateful bow was
needed, for the sudden faintness which had withdrawn the color from her
cheek yet lingered, sufficient to render the exertion of speaking
painful.

"Yet pause one moment, my liege," said Nigel, playfully leading Alan
forward; "give me one moment, ere you fling aside your kingly state.
Here is a young soldier, longing to rush into the very thickest of a
fight that may win a golden spur and receive knighthood at your grace's
hand; a doughty spokesman, who was to say a marvellously long speech of
duty, homage, and such like, but whose tongue at sight of thee has
turned traitor to its cause. Have mercy on him, good my liege; I'll
answer that his arm is less a traitor than his tongue."

"We do not doubt it, Nigel, and will accept thy words for his. Be
satisfied, young sir, the willing homage of all true men is precious to
King Robert. And thou, fair maiden, wilt thou, too, follow thy monarch's
fortunes, cloudy though they seem? we read thine answer in thy blushing
cheek, and thus we thank thee, maiden."

He threw aside his plumed cap, and gallantly yet respectfully saluted
the fair, soft cheek; confused yet pleased, Agnes looked doubtingly
towards Nigel, who, smiling a happy, trusting, joyous smile, led her a
few minutes apart, whispered some fond words, raised her hand to his
lips, and summoning Alan, they left the room together.

"Sir Robert Keith informs me, noble lady," said the king, again
addressing Isabella, "that it is your determination to represent, in
your own proper person, the ancient line of Duff at the approaching
ceremony, and demand from our hands, as such representative, the
privilege granted by King Malcolm to your noble ancestor and his
descendants, of placing on the sovereign's brow the coronet of Scotland.
Is it not so?"

"I do indeed most earnestly demand this privilege, my gracious liege,"
answered the countess, firmly; "demand it as a right, a glorious right,
made mine by the weak and fickle conduct of my brother. Alas! the only
male descendant of that line which until now hath never known a
traitor."

"But hast thou well considered, lady? There is danger in this act,
danger even to thyself."

"My liege, that there is danger threatening all the patriots of
Scotland, monarch or serf, male or female, I well know; yet in what does
it threaten me more in this act, than in the mere acknowledgment of the
Earl of Carrick as my sovereign?"

"It will excite the rage of Edward of England against thyself
individually, lady; I know him well, only too well. All who join in
giving countenance and aid to my inauguration will be proclaimed,
hunted, placed under the ban of traitors, and, if unfortunately taken,
will in all probability share the fate of Wallace." His voice became
husky with strong emotion. "There is no exception in his sweeping
tyranny; youth and age, noble and serf, of either sex, of either land,
if they raise the sword for Bruce and freedom, will fall by the
hangman's cord or headsman's axe; and I, alas! must look on and bear,
for I have neither men nor power to avert such fate; and that hand which
places on my head the crown, death, death, a cruel death, will be the
doom of its patriot owner. Think, think on this, and oh, retract thy
noble resolution, ere it be too late."

"Is she who gives the crown in greater danger, good my liege, than he
who wears it?" demanded the countess, with a calm and quiet smile.

"Nay," he answered, smiling likewise for the moment, "but I were worse
than traitor, did I shrink from Scotland in her need, and refuse her
diadem, in fear, forsooth, of death at Edward's hands. No! I have held
back too long, and now will I not turn back till Scotland's freedom is
achieved, or Robert Bruce lies with the slain. Repentance for the past,
hope, ambition for the future; a firm heart and iron frame, a steady arm
and sober mood, to meet the present--I have these, sweet lady, to fit
and nerve me for the task, but not such hast thou. I doubt not thy
patriot soul; perchance 'twas thy lip that first awoke the slumbering
fire within my own breast, and though a while forgotten, recalled, when
again I looked on thee, after Falkirk's fatal battle, with the charge,
the solemn charge of Wallace yet ringing in mine ears. Yet, lady, noble
lady, tempt not the fearful fate which, shouldst thou fall into Edward's
hands, I know too well will be thine own. I dare not promise sure
defence from his o'erwhelming hosts: on every side they compass me. I
see sorrow and death for all I love, all who swear fealty to me. I shall
succeed in the end, for heaven, just heaven will favor the righteous
cause; but trouble and anguish must be my lot ere then, and I would save
those I can. Remain with us an thou wilt, gratefully I accept the homage
so nobly and unhesitatingly tendered; but still I beseech thee, lady,
expose not thy noble self to the blind wrath of Edward, as thou surely
wilt, if from thy hand I receive my country's crown."

"My liege," answered the countess, in that same calm, quiet tone, "I
have heard thee with a deep grateful sense of the noble feeling, the
kindly care which dictates thy words; yet pardon me, if they fail to
shake my resolution--a resolution not lightly formed, not the mere
excitement of a patriotic moment, but one based on the principles of
years, on the firm, solemn conviction, that in taking this sacred office
on myself, the voice of the dead is obeyed, the memory of the dead, the
noble dead, preserved from stain, inviolate and pure. Would my father
have kept aloof in such an hour--refused to place on the brow of
Scotland's patriot king the diadem of his forefathers--held back in fear
of Edward? Oh! would that his iron hand and loyal heart were here
instead of mine; gladly would I lay me down in his cold home and place
him at thy side, might such things be: but as it is, my liege, I do
beseech thee, cease to urge me. I have but a woman's frame, a woman's
heart, and yet death hath no fear for me. Let Edward work his will, if
heaven ordain I fall into his ruthless hands; death comes but once, 'tis
but a momentary pang, and rest and bliss shall follow. My father's
spirit breathes within me, and as he would, so let his daughter do. 'Tis
not now a time to depart from ancient forms, my gracious sovereign, and
there are those in Scotland who scarce would deem thee crowned, did not
the blood of Fife perform that holy office."

"And this, then, noble lady, is thy firm resolve--I may not hope to
change it?"

"'Tis firm as the ocean rock, my liege. I do not sue thee to permit my
will; the blood of Macduff, which rushes in my veins, doth mark it as my
right, and as my right I do demand it." She stood in her majestic
beauty, proudly and firmly before him, and unconsciously the king
acknowledged and revered the dauntless spirit that lovely form
enshrined.

"Lady," he said, raising her hand with reverence to his lips, "do as
thou wilt: a weaker spirit would have shrunk at once in terror from the
very thought of such open defiance to King Edward. I should have known
the mind that framed such daring purpose would never shrink from its
fulfilment, however danger threatened; enough, we know thy faithfulness
and worth, and where to seek for brave and noble counsel in the hour of
need. And now, may it be our privilege to present thee to our queen,
sweet lady? We shall rejoice to see thee ever near her person."

"I pray your grace excuse me for this night," answered the countess; "we
have made some length of way to-day, and, if it please you, I would
seek rest. Agnes shall supply my place; Mary, thou wilt guard her, wilt
thou not?"

"Nay, be mine the grateful task," said the king, gayly taking the
maiden's hand, and, after a few words of courtesy, he quitted the
chamber, followed by his sister.

There were sounds of mirth and revelry that night in the ancient halls
of Scone, for King Robert, having taken upon himself the state and
consequence of sovereignty, determined on encouraging the high spirits
and excited joyousness of his gallant followers by all the amusements of
chivalry which his confined and precarious situation permitted, and
seldom was it that the dance and minstrelsy did not echo blithely in the
royal suite for many hours of the evening, even when the day had brought
with it anxiety and fatigue, and even intervals of despondency. There
were many noble dames and some few youthful maidens in King Robert's
court, animated by the same patriotic spirit which led their husbands
and brothers to risk fortune and life in the service of their country:
they preferred sharing and alleviating their dangers and anxieties, by
thronging round the Bruce's wife, to the precarious calm and safety of
their feudal castles; and light-heartedness and glee shed their bright
gleams on these social hours, never clouded by the gloomy shades that
darkened the political horizon of the Bruce's fortunes. Perchance this
night there was a yet brighter radiance cast over the royal halls, there
was a spirit of light and glory in every word and action of the youthful
enthusiast, Nigel Bruce, that acted as with magic power on all around;
known in the court of England but as a moody visionary boy, whose dreams
were all too ethereal to guide him in this nether world, whose hand,
however fitted to guide a pen, was all too weak to wield a sword; the
change, or we should rather say the apparent change, perceived in him
occasioned many an eye to gaze in silent wonderment, and, in the
superstition of the time, argue well for the fortunes of one brother
from the marvellous effect observable in the countenance and mood of the
other.

The hopefulness of youth, its rosy visions, its smiling dreams, all
sparkled in his blight blue eye, in the glad, free, ringing joyance of
his deep rich voice, his cloudless smiles. And oh, who is there can
resist the witchery of life's young hopes, who does not feel the warm
blood run quicker through his veins, and bid his heart throb even as it
hath throbbed in former days, and the gray hues of life melt away before
the rosy glow of youth, even as the calm cold aspect of waning night is
lost in the warmth and loveliness of the infant morn? And what was the
magic acting on the enthusiast himself, that all traces of gloom and
pensive thought were banished from his brow, that the full tide of
poetry within his soul seemed thrilling on his lip, breathing in his
simplest word, entrancing his whole being in joy? Scarce could he
himself have defined its cause, such a multitude of strong emotions were
busy at his heart. He saw not the dangers overhanging the path of the
Bruce, he only saw and only felt him as his sovereign, as his brother,
his friend, destined to be all that he had hoped, prayed, and believed
he would be; willing to accept and return the affection he had so long
felt, and give him that friendship and confidence for which he had
yearned in vain so long. He saw his country free, independent,
unshackled, glorious as of old; and there was a light and lovely being
mingling in these stirring visions--when Scotland was free, what
happiness would not be his own! Agnes, who flitted before him in that
gay scene, the loveliest, dearest object there, clinging to him in her
timidity, shrinking from the gaze of the warriors around, respectful as
it was, feeling that all was strange, all save him to whom her young
heart was vowed--if such exclusiveness was dear to him, if it were bliss
to him to feel that, save her young brother, he alone had claim upon her
notice and her smile, oh! what would it be when she indeed was all, all
indivisibly his own? Was it marvel, then, his soul was full of the joy
that beamed forth from his eye, and lip, and brow--that his faintest
tone breathed gladness?

There was music and mirth in the royal halls: the shadow of care had
passed before the full sunshine of hope; but within that palace wall,
not many roods removed from the royal suite, was one heart struggling
with its lone agony, striving for calm, for peace, for rest, to escape
from the deep waters threatening to overwhelm it. Hour after hour beheld
the Countess of Buchan in the same spot, well-nigh in the same attitude;
the agonized dream of her youth had come upon her yet once again, the
voice whose musical echoes had never faded from her ear, once more had
sounded in its own deep thrilling tones, his hand had pressed her own,
his eye had met hers, aye, and dwelt upon her with the unfeigned
reverence and admiration which had marked its expression years before;
and it was to him her soul had yearned in all the fervidness of loyalty,
not to a stranger, as she had deemed him. Loyalty, patriotism, reverence
her sovereign claimed, aye, and had received; but now how dare she
encourage such emotions towards one it had been, aye, it was her duty to
forget, to think of no more? Had her husband been fond, sought the noble
heart which felt so bitterly his neglect, the gulf which now divided
them might never have existed; and could she still the voice of that
patriotism, that loyalty towards a free just monarch, which the dying
words of a parent had so deeply inculcated, and which the sentiments of
her own heart had increased in steadiness and strength? On what had that
lone heart to rest, to subdue its tempest, to give it nerve and force,
to rise pure in thought as in deed, unstained, unshaded in its
nobleness, what but its own innate purity? Yet fearful was the storm
that passed over, terrible the struggle which shook that bent form, as
in lowliness and contrition, and agony of spirit, she knelt before the
silver crucifix, and called upon heaven in its mercy to give peace and
strength--fierce, fierce and terrible; but the agonized cry was heard,
the stormy waves were stilled.




CHAPTER V.


Brightly and blithely dawned the 26th of March, 1306, for the loyal
inhabitants of Scone. Few who might gaze on the olden city, and marked
the flags and pennons waving gayly and proudly on every side; the rich
tapestry flung over balconies or hung from the massive windows, in every
street; the large branches of oak and laurel, festooned with gay
ribands, that stood beside the entrance of every house which boasted any
consequence; the busy citizens in goodly array, with their wives and
families, bedecked to the best of their ability, all, as inspired by one
spirit, hurrying in the direction of the abbey yard, joining the merry
clamor of eager voices to the continued peal of every bell of which the
old town could boast, sounding loud and joyously even above the roll of
the drum or the shrill trumpet call;--those who marked these things
might well believe Scotland was once again the same free land, which
had hailed in the same town the coronation of Alexander the Third, some
years before. Little would they deem that the foreign foeman still
thronged her feudal holds and cottage homes, that they waited but the
commands of their monarch, to pour down on all sides upon the daring
individual who thus boldly assumed the state and solemn honor of a king,
and, armed but by his own high heart and a handful of loyal followers,
prepared to resist, defend, and _free_, or _die_ for Scotland.

There was silence--deep, solemn, yet most eloquent silence, reigning in
the abbey church of Scone. The sun shining in that full flood of glory
we sometimes find in the infant spring, illumined as with golden lustre
the long, narrow casements, falling thence in flickering brilliance on
the pavement floor, its rays sometimes arrested, to revolve in
heightened lustre from the glittering sword or the suit of half-mail of
one or other of the noble knights assembled there. The rich plate of the
abbey, all at least which had escaped the cupidity of Edward, was
arranged with care upon the various altars; in the centre of the church
was placed the abbot's oaken throne, which was to supply the place of
the ancient stone, the coronation seat of the Scottish kings--no longer
there, its absence felt by one and all within that church as the closing
seal to Edward's infamy--the damning proof that as his slave, not as his
sister kingdom, he sought to render Scotland. From the throne to the
high altar, where the king was to receive the eucharist, a carpet of
richly-brocaded Genoa velvet was laid down; a cushion of the same
elegantly-wrought material marked the place beside the spot where he was
to kneel. Priests, in their richest vestments, officiated at the high
altar; six beautiful boys, bearing alternately a large waxen candle, and
the golden censers filled with the richest incense, stood beside them,
while opposite the altar and behind the throne, in an elevated gallery,
were ranged the seventy choristers of the abbey, thirty of whom were
youthful novices; behind them a massive screen or curtain of tapestry
concealed the organ, and gave a yet more startling and thrilling effect
to its rich deep tones, thus bursting, as it were, from spheres unseen.

The throne was already occupied by the patriot king, clothed in his
robes of state; his inner dress was a doublet and vest of white velvet,
slashed with cloth of silver; his stockings, fitting tight to the knee,
were of the finest woven white silk, confined where they met the doublet
with a broad band of silver; his shoes of white velvet, broidered with
silver, in unison with his dress; a scarf of cloth of silver passed over
his right shoulder, fastened there by a jewelled clasp, and, crossing
his breast, secured his trusty sword to his left side; his head, of
course, was bare, and his fair hair, parted carefully on his arched and
noble brow, descended gracefully on either side; his countenance was
perfectly calm, unexpressive of aught save of a deep sense of the solemn
service in which he was engaged. There was not the faintest trace of
either anxiety or exultation--naught that could shadow the brows of his
followers, or diminish by one particle the love and veneration which in
every heart were rapidly gaining absolute dominion.

On the right of the king stood the Abbot of Scone, the Archbishop of St.
Andrew's, and Bishop of Glasgow, all of which venerable prelates had
instantaneously and unhesitatingly declared for the Bruce; ranged on
either side of the throne, according more to seniority than rank, were
seated the brothers of the Bruce and the loyal barons who had joined his
standard. Names there were already famous in the annals of
patriotism--Fraser, Lennox, Athol, Hay--whose stalwart arms had so nobly
struck for Wallace, whose steady minds had risen superior to the petty
emotions of jealousy and envy which had actuated so many of similar
rank. These were true patriots, and gladly and freely they once more
rose for Scotland. Sir Christopher Seaton, brother-in-law to the Bruce,
Somerville, Keith, St. Clair, the young Lord Douglas, and Thomas
Randolph, the king's nephew, were the most noted of those now around the
Bruce; yet on that eventful day not more than fourteen barons were
mustered round their sovereign, exclusive of his four gallant brothers,
who were in themselves a host. All these were attired with the care and
gallantry their precarious situation permitted; half armor, concealed by
flowing scarfs and graceful mantles, or suits of gayer seeming among the
younger knights, for those of the barons' followers of gentle blood and
chivalric training were also admitted within the church, forming a
goodly show of gallant men. Behind them, on raised seats, which were
divided from the body of the church by an open railing of ebony, sate
the ladies of the court, the seat of the queen distinguished from the
rest by its canopy and cushion of embroidered taffeta, and amongst
those gentle beings fairest and loveliest shone the maiden of Buchan, as
she sate in smiling happiness between the youthful daughter of the
Bruce, the Princess Margory, and his niece, the Lady Isoline, children
of ten and fourteen, who already claimed her as their companion and
friend.

The color was bright on the soft cheek of Agnes, the smile laughed alike
in her lip and eye; for ever and anon, from amidst the courtly crowd
beneath, the deep blue orb of Nigel Bruce met hers, speaking in its
passioned yet respectful gaze, all that could whisper joy and peace unto
a heart, young, loving, and confiding, as that of Agnes. The evening
previous he had detached the blue riband which confined her flowing
curls, and it was with a feeling of pardonable pride she beheld it
suspended from his neck, even in that hour, when his rich habiliments
and the imposing ceremony of the day marked him the brother of a king.
Her brother, too, was at his side, gazing upon his sovereign with
feelings, whose index, marked as it was on his brow, gave him the
appearance of being older than he was. It was scarcely the excitement of
a mere boy, who rejoiced in the state and dignity around him; the
emotion of his mother had sunk upon his very soul, subduing the wild
buoyancy of his spirit, and bidding him feel deeply and sadly the
situation in which he stood. It seemed to him as if he had never thought
before, and now that reflection had come upon him, it was fraught with a
weight and gloom he could not remove and scarcely comprehend. He felt no
power on earth could prevent his taking the only path which was open to
the true patriot of Scotland, and in following that path he raised the
standard of revolt, and enlisted his own followers against his father.
Till the moment of action he had dreamed not of these things; but the
deep anxieties, the contending feelings of his mother, which, despite
her controlled demeanor, his heart perceived, could not but have their
effect; and premature manhood was stealing fast upon his heart.

Upon the left of the king, and close beside his throne, stood the
Countess of Buchan, attired in robes of the darkest crimson velvet, with
a deep border of gold, which swept the ground, and long falling sleeves
with a broad fringe; a thick cord of gold and tassels confined the robe
around the waist, and thence fell reaching to her feet, and well-nigh
concealing the inner dress of white silk, which was worn to permit the
robes falling easily on either side, and thus forming a long train
behind. Neither gem nor gold adorned her beautiful hair; a veil was
twisted in its luxuriant tresses, and served the purpose of the matron's
coif. She was pale and calm, but such was the usual expression of her
countenance, and perhaps accorded better with the dignified majesty of
her commanding figure than a greater play of feature. It was not the
calmness of insensibility, of vacancy, it was the still reflection of a
controlled and chastened soul, of one whose depth and might was known
but to-herself.

The pealing anthem for a while had ceased, and it was as if that church
was desolate, as if the very hearts that throbbed so quickly for their
country and their king were hushed a while and stilled, that every word
which passed between the sovereign and the primate should be heard.
Kneeling before him, his hands placed between those of the archbishop,
the king, in a clear and manly voice, received, as it were, the kingdom
from his hands, and swore to govern according to the laws of his
ancestors; to defend the liberties of his people alike from the foreign
and the civil foe; to dispense justice; to devote life itself to
restoring Scotland to her former station in the scale of kingdoms.
Solemnly, energetically, he took the required vows; his cheek flushed,
his eye glistened, and ere he rose he bent his brow upon his spread
hands, as if his spirit supplicated strength, and the primate, standing
over him, blessed him, in a loud voice, in the name of Him whose lowly
minister he was.

A few minutes, and the king was again seated on his throne, and from the
hands of the Bishop of Glasgow, the Countess of Buchan received the
simple coronet of gold, which had been hastily made to supply the place
of that which Edward had removed. It was a moment of intense interest:
every eye was directed towards the king and the dauntless woman by his
side, who, rather than the descendant of Malcolm Cean Mohr should demand
in vain the service from the descendants of the brave Macduff, exposed
herself to all the wrath of a fierce and cruel king, the fury of an
incensed husband and brother, and in her own noble person represented
that ancient and most loyal line. Were any other circumstance needed to
enhance the excitement of the patriots of Scotland, they would have
found it in this. As it was, a sudden, irrepressible burst of applause
broke from many eager voices as the bishop placed the coronet in her
hands, but one glance from those dark, eloquent eyes sufficed to hush
it on the instant into stillness.

Simultaneously all within the church stood up, and gracefully and
steadily, with a hand which trembled not, even to the observant and
anxious eyes of her son, Isabella of Buchan placed the sacred symbol of
royalty on the head of Scotland's king; and then arose, as with one
voice, the wild enthusiastic shout of loyalty, which, bursting from all
within the church, was echoed again and again from without, almost
drowning the triumphant anthem which at the same moment sent its rich,
hallowed tones through the building, and proclaimed Robert Bruce indeed
a king.

Again and yet again the voice of triumph and of loyalty arose
hundred-tongued, and sent its echo even to the English camp; and when it
ceased, when slowly, and as it were reluctantly, it died away, it was a
grand and glorious sight to see those stern and noble barons one by one
approach their sovereign's throne and do him homage.

It was not always customary for the monarchs of those days to receive
the feudal homage of their vassals the same hour of their coronation, it
was in general a distinct and almost equally gorgeous ceremony; but in
this case both the king and barons felt it better policy to unite them;
the excitement attendant on the one ceremonial they felt would prevent
the deficiency of numbers in the other being observed, and they acted
wisely.

There was a dauntless firmness in each baron's look, in his manly
carriage and unwavering step, as one by one he traversed the space
between him and the throne, seeming to proclaim that in himself he held
indeed a host. To adhere to the usual custom of paying homage to the
suzerain bareheaded, barefooted, and unarmed, the embroidered slipper
had been adopted by all instead of the iron boot; and as he knelt before
the throne, the Earl of Lennox, for, first in rank, he first approached
his sovereign, unbuckling his trusty sword, laid it, together with his
dagger, at Robert's feet, and placing his clasped hands between those of
the king, repeated, in a deep sonorous voice, the solemn vow--to live
and die with him against all manner of men. Athol, Fraser, Seaton,
Douglas, Hay, gladly and willingly followed his example; and it was
curious to mark the character of each man, proclaimed in his mien and
hurried step.

The calm, controlled, and somewhat thoughtful manner of those grown wise
in war, their bold spirits feeling to the inmost soul the whole extent
of the risk they run, scarcely daring to anticipate the freedom of their
country, the emancipation of their king from the heavy yoke that
threatened him, and yet so firm in the oath they pledged, that had
destruction yawned before them ere they reached the throne, they would
have dared it rather than turned back--and then again those hot and
eager youths, feeling, knowing but the excitement of the hour, believing
but as they hoped, seeing but a king, a free and independent king,
bounding from their seats to the monarch's feet, regardless of the
solemn ceremonial in which they took a part, desirous only, in the words
of their oath, to live and die for him--caused a brighter flush to
mantle on King Robert's cheek, and his eyes to shine with new and
radiant light. None knew better than himself the perils that encircled
him, yet there was a momentary glow of exultation in his heart as he
looked on the noble warriors, the faithful friends around him, and felt
that they, even they, representatives of the oldest, the noblest houses
in Scotland--men famed not alone for their gallant bearing in war, but
their fidelity and wisdom, and unstained honor and virtue in peace--even
they acknowledged him their king, and vowed him that allegiance which
was never known to fail.

Alan of Buchan was the last of that small yet noble train who approached
his sovereign. There was a hot flush of impetuous feeling on the boy's
cheek, an indignant tear trembled in his dark flashing eye, and his
voice, sweet, thrilling as it was, quivered with the vain effort to
restrain his emotion.

"Sovereign of Scotland," he exclaimed, "descendant of that glorious line
of kings to whom my ancestors have until this dark day vowed homage and
allegiance; sovereign of all good and faithful men, on whose inmost
souls the name of Scotland is so indelibly writ, that even in death it
may there be found, refuse not thou my homage. I have but my sword, not
e'en a name of which to boast, yet hear me swear," he raised his clasped
hands towards heav