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  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 painand pleasure have actuated my heart. Who shall speak the regret thatshe, to whom its composition was a work of love, cannot participate inthe joy which its publication would have occasioned--who shall tell ofthat anxious pleasure which I feel in witnessing the success of each andall the efforts of her pen?

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

  How far the merits of this work may be perceived becomes not me tojudge; I only know and _feel_ that on me has devolved the endearing taskof publishing the writings of my lamented child--that I am fulfillingthe 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 perhapsbe deemed mild and beautiful as May by those accustomed to meet andbrave its fury in the eastern Highlands, nor would the evening on whichour tale commences bely its wild and fitful character.

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

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

  Originally a hunting-lodge, it had been continually enlarged bysucceeding lords, without any regard either to symmetry or proportion,elegance or convenience; and now, early in the year 1306, appearedwithin its outer walls as a most heterogeneous mass of ill-shapedturrets, courts, offices, and galleries, huddled together in ill-sortedconfusion, though presenting to the distant view a massive squarebuilding, remarkable only for a strength and solidity capable ofresisting alike the war of elements and of man.

  Without all seemed a dreary wilderness, but within existed indisputablesigns of active life. The warlike inhabitants of the tower, thoughcomparatively few in number, were continually passing to and fro in thecourts and galleries, or congregating in little knots, in eagerconverse. Some cleansing their armor or arranging banners; others, youngand active, practising the various manoeuvres of mimic war; each andall bearing on their brow that indescribable expression of anticipationand excitement which seems ever on the expectant of it knows not what.The condition of Scotland was indeed such as to keep her sons constantlyon the alert, preparing for defence or attack, as the insurging effortsof the English or the commands of their lords should determine. From therichest 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 unmitigatedhorrors, for it was native blood which deluged the rich plains, thesmiling vales, and fertile hills of Scotland.

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

  The deep embrasures of the casements were thus in a manner severed fromthe main apartment, for even when the curtains were completely loweredthere was space enough to contain a chair or two and a table. Thefurniture corresponded in solidity and proportion to the panelling ortapestry of the walls; nor was there any approach even at those doubtfulcomforts already introduced in the more luxurious Norman castles ofSouth Britain.

  The group, however, assembled in one of these ancient rooms needed notthe aid of adventitious ornament to betray the nobility of birth, andthose exalted and chivalric feelings inherent to their rank. The sun,whose stormy radiance during the day had alternately deluged earth andsky with fitful yet glorious brilliance, and then, burying itself in thedark masses of overhanging clouds, robed every object in deepest gloom,now seemed to concentrate his departing rays in one living flood ofsplendor, and darting within the chamber, lingered in crimson gloryaround the youthful form of a gentle girl, dyeing her long andclustering curls with gold. Slightly bending over a large and cumbrousframe which supported her embroidery, her attitude could no more concealthe grace and lightness of her childlike form, than the glossy ringletsthe soft and radiant features which they shaded. There was archnesslurking in those dark blue eyes, to which tears seemed yet a stranger;the clear and snowy forehead, the full red lip, and health-bespeakingcheek had surely seen but smiles, and mirrored but the joyous lightwhich filled her gentle heart. Her figure seemed to speak a child, butthere was a something in that face, bright, glowing as it was, which yetwould tell of somewhat more than childhood--that seventeen summers haddone their work, and taught that guileless heart a sterner tale thangladness.

  A young man, but three or four years her senior, occupied an embroideredsettle 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, norwould the most casual observer have looked on them as kindred.
Fair andlovely as the maiden would even have been pronounced, it was perhapsmore the expression, the sweet innocence that characterized her featureswhich gave to them their charm; but in the young man there wasinfinitely more than this, though effeminate as was his complexion, andthe bright sunny curls which floated over his throat, he was eminentlyand indescribably beautiful, for it was the mind, the glorious mind, thekindling spirit which threw their radiance over his perfect features;the spirit and mind which that noble form enshrined stood apart, andthough he knew it not himself, found not their equal in that dark periodof warfare and of woe. The sword and lance were the only instruments ofthe feudal aristocracy; ambition, power, warlike fame, the principaloccupants of their thoughts; the chase, the tourney, or the foray, therelaxation of their spirits. But unless that face deceived, there wasmore, 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 thehappy smiles and earnest attention of the maiden, appeared to impart thepleasure intended by the speaker. The other visible inhabitant of theapartment was a noble-looking boy of about fifteen, far less steadilyemployed than his companions, for at one time he was poising a heavylance, and throwing himself into the various attitudes of a finishedwarrior; at others, brandished a two-handed sword, somewhat taller thanhimself; then glancing over the shoulder of his sister--for so nearlywas he connected with the maiden, though the raven curls, the brightflashing eye of jet, and darker skin, appeared to forswear such nearrelationship--criticising her embroidery, and then transferring hisscrutiny to the strange figures on the gorgeously-illuminatedmanuscript, and then for a longer period listening, as it were,irresistibly to the wild legends which that deep voice was somelodiously pouring forth.

  "It will never do, Agnes. You cannot embroider the coronation of KennethMacAlpine and listen to these wild tales at one and the same time. Lookat your clever pupil, Sir Nigel; she is placing a heavy iron buckler onthe poor king's head instead of his golden crown." The boy laughed longand merrily as he spoke, and even Sir Nigel smiled; while Agnes,blushing and confused, replied, half jestingly and half earnestly, "Andwhy 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 suchmarvellous abstraction, and whether, in case of necessity, an ironshield would serve our purpose as well as a jewelled diadem."

  "Never fear, my boy. Let but the king stand forth, and there will beScottish men enow and willing to convert an iron buckler into a goodlycrown;" and as Sir Nigel spoke his eyes flashed, and his wholecountenance irradiated with a spirit that might not have been suspectedwhen in the act of reading, but which evidently only slept till awakenedby an all-sufficient call. "Let the tyrant Edward exult in thepossession of our country's crown and sceptre--he may find we need notthem to make a king; aye, and a king to snatch the regal diadem from theproud usurper's brow--the Scottish sceptre from his blood-stainedhands!"

  "Thou talkest wildly, Nigel," answered the lad, sorrowfully, hisfeatures assuming an expression of judgment and feeling beyond hisyears. "Who is there in Scotland will do this thing? who will dare againthe 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 fromthe tyrant's hands? And is there not one to follow in the path hetrod--no noble heart to do what he hath done?"

  "Nigel, yes. Let but the rightful king stand forth, and were there noneother, 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, wouldjoin him, aye, and die for him!"

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

  "Wallace," said the maiden, fearfully; "ye talk of Wallace, of his bolddeeds and bolder heart, but bethink ye of his _fate_. Oh, were it notbetter to be still than follow in his steps unto the scaffold?"

  "Dearest, no; better the scaffold and the axe, aye, even the ironchains 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 aScottish maiden." Yet even as he spoke chidingly, the voice of Nigelbecame 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 myveins. I cannot bid them throb and bound as hers with patriotic love andwarrior 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 couldhave no resting there. Wherefore did Scotland rise against hertyrant--why struggle as she hath to fling aside her chains? Was it hernoble sons? Alas, alas! degenerate and base, they sought chivalric fame;forgetful of their country, they asked for knighthood from proudEdward's hand, regardless that that hand had crowded fetters on theirfatherland, and would enslave their sons. Not to them did Scotland owethe transient gleam of glorious light which, though extinguished in thepatriot's blood, hath left its trace behind. With the bold, the hardy,lowly Scot that gleam had birth; they would be free to them. Whatmattered that their tyrant was a valiant knight, a worthy son ofchivalry: they saw but an usurper, an enslaver, and they rose andspurned his smiles--aye, and they _will_ rise again. And wert thou oneof 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 aloudrevenge for Wallace!"

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

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

  "I know it Alan; know it but too well," answered Nigel, sadly, thoughthe dark glow rushed up to cheek and brow. "Yet Robert's blood is hotenough. His deeds are plunged in mystery--his words not less so; yet Icannot look on him as thou dost, as, alas! too many do. It may be that Ilove 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 mysenior, he has ever held me as a child taking little heed of his waywardcourse; and yet my heart has throbbed beneath his word, his look, as ifhe were not what he seemed, but would--but must be something more."

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

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

  "Art thou indeed so modest, gentle Nigel--is thy happiness so distinctfrom self? thine eyes tell othe
r 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 quicklythan they were raised, and vainly for a few seconds did she endeavor soto steady her hand as to resume her task. Nigel was, however, sparedreply, for a sharp and sudden bugle-blast reverberated through thetower, and with an exclamation of wondering inquiry Alan bounded fromthe chamber. There was one other inmate of that apartment, whosepresence, although known and felt, had, as was evident, been norestraint either to the employments or the sentiments of the two youthsand their companion. Their conversation had not passed unheeded,although it had elicited no comment or rejoinder. The Countess of Buchanstood within one of those deep embrasures we have noticed, at timesglancing towards the youthful group with an earnestness of sorrowingaffection that seemed to have no measure in its depth, no shrinking inits might; at others, fixing a long, unmeaning, yet somewhat anxiousgaze 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 ofher figure seemed to mark her as one born to command, to hold in willinghomage the minds and inclinations of men; her pure, pale brow and marblecheek--for the rich rose seemed a stranger there--the long silky lash ofjet, the large, full, black eye, in its repose so soft that few wouldguess how it could flash fire, and light up those classic features withpower to stir the stagnant souls of thousands and guide them with aword. 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 thickthreads 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'swing, was laid in smooth bands upon her stately brow, and gathered upbehind in a careless knot, confined with a bodkin of massive gold. Thehood or coif, formed of curiously twisted black and golden threads,which she wore in compliance with the Scottish custom, that thus madethe distinction between the matron and the maiden, took not from thepeculiarly graceful form of the head, nor in any part concealed therichness of the hair. Calm and pensive as was the general expression ofher countenance, few could look upon it without that peculiar sensationof respect, approaching to awe, which restrained and conquered sorrowever calls for. Perchance the cause of such emotion was all toodelicate, too deeply veiled to be defined by those rude hearts who wereyet conscious of its existence; and for them it was enough to own herpower, bow before it, and fear her as a being set apart.

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

  "Alas, my gentle one," she had internally responded to her daughter'swords, "if thy mother's patriot heart could find no shield for woe, norher 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 peacefuljoys, returned as it may be; for--may I doubt that truthful brow, thatknightly soul (her glance was fixed on Nigel)--yet not now may theScottish knight find rest and peace in woman's love. And better is itthus--the land of the slave is no home for love."

  A faint yet a beautiful smile, dispersing as a momentary beam theanxiety stamped on her features, awoke at the enthusiastic reply ofNigel. Then she turned again to the casement, for her quick eye haddiscerned a party of about ten horsemen approaching in the direction ofthe tower, and on the summons of the bugle she advanced from her retreatto 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 bloodto thy little heart," she said, playfully. "For shame, for shame! howart thou fitted to be a warrior's bride? They are but Scottish men, andtrue, methinks, if I recognize their leader rightly. And it is even so."

  "Sir Robert Keith, right welcome," she added, as, marshalled by youngAlan, the knight appeared, bearing his plumed helmet in his hand, anddisplaying haste and eagerness alike in his flushed features and soiledarmor.

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

  "Nay, noble lady, knights must don, not doff their armor now. I bring yenews, great, glorious news, which will not brook delay. A royalmessenger I come, charged by his grace my king--my country's king--withmissives to his friends, calling on all who spurn a tyrant's yoke--wholove their land, their homes, their freedom--on all who wish forWallace--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 withwhich he had welcomed the knight, and springing towards him.

  "The patriot and the king!--of whom canst thou speak?" said Alan, at thesame instant. "Thine are, in very truth, marvellous tidings, Sir Knight;an' thou canst call up one to unite such names, and worthy of them, heshall 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 ofbrave men prepares to follow in the steps of Wallace, to the throne orto the scaffold?"

  "Heed not my reckless boy, Sir Robert," said the countess, earnestly, asthe 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 herdefence."

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

  "And canst thou too ask, young sir?" returned the knight, with a smileof peculiar meaning. "Is thy sovereign's name unknown to thee? Is RobertBruce a name unknown, unheard, unloved, that thou, too, breathest itnot?"

  "My brother, my brave, my noble brother!--I saw it, I knew it! Thou wertno changeling, no slavish neutral; but even as I felt, thou art, thouwilt be! My brother, my brother, I may live and die for thee!" and theyoung enthusiast raised his clasped hands above his head, as inspeechless thanksgiving for these strange, exciting news; his flushedcheek, his quivering lip, his moistened eye betraying an emotion whichseemed for the space of a moment to sink on the hearts of all whowitnessed it, and hush each feeling into silence. A shout from the courtbelow broke that momentary pause.

  "God save King Robert! then, say I," vociferated Alan, eagerly graspingthe 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 goodlyEarl of Carrick at Edward's court, doing him homage, serving him as hisown English knight, and now in Scotland--aye, and Scotland's king. Howmay we reconcile these contradictions?"

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

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

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

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

  "And by whom did the traitor die?" fiercely demanded the young heir ofBuchan. "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'sown right hand red with the recreant's blood--he only is the Comyn'sking."

  "Thou hast said it, youthful lord," said the knight, impressively. "Alanof Buchan, bear that bold heart and patriot sword unto the Bruce'sthrone, and Comyn's traitorous name shall be forgotten in the scion ofMacduff. 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 redwith the traitor's blood, and yet, fearless and firm in the holy justiceof his cause, he calls on his nobles and their vassals for their homageand their aid--he calls on them to awake from their long sleep, andshake off the iron yoke from their necks; to prove that Scotland--thefree, the dauntless, the unconquered soil, which once spurned the Romanpower, to which all other kingdoms bowed--is free, undaunted, andunconquered still. He calls aloud, aye, even on ye, wife and son ofComyn 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 onedescendant's veins, that the Earl of Fife refuses homage and allegianceto 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 whoselips my heart first learnt to beat for Scotland my lips to pray that onemight come to save her from the yoke of tyranny. You, who taught me toforget all private feud, to merge all feeling, every claim, in the onegreat hope of Scotland's freedom. Now that the time is come, whereforeart thou thus? Mother, my own noble mother, let me go forth with thyblessing on my path, and ill and woe can come not near me. Speak to thyson!" The undaunted boy flung himself on his knee before the countess ashe spoke. There was a dark and fearfully troubled expression on hernoble features. She had clasped her hands together, as if to still orhide their unwonted trembling; but when she looked on those bright andglowing features, there came a dark, dread vision of blood, and the axeand cord, and she folded her arms around his neck, and sobbed in all amother's irrepressible agony.

  "My own, my beautiful, to what have I doomed thee!" she cried. "Todeath, 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 forfreedom. Alan, Alan, how can I bid thee forth to death? and yet it is Ihave 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 mychild--and now, now--oh God of mercy, give me strength!"

  She bent down her head on his, clasping him to her heart, as thus tostill the tempest which had whelmed it. There is something terrible inthat strong emotion which sometimes suddenly and unexpectedly overpowersthe calmest and most controlled natures. It speaks of an agony someasureless, so beyond the relief of sympathy, that it falls like anelectric spell on the hearts of all witnesses, sweeping all minorpassions into dust before it. Little accustomed as was Sir Robert Keithto sympathize in such emotions, he now turned hastily aside, and, as iffearing to trust himself in silence, commenced a hurried detail to NigelBruce of the Earl of Carrick's escape from London, and his presentposition. The young nobleman endeavored to confine his attention to thesubject, but his eyes would wander in the direction of Agnes, who,terrified at emotions which in her mother she had never witnessedbefore, was kneeling in tears beside her brother.

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

  "We will speak further of this anon, Sir Robert," she said, so calmlythat 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 anight's lodging, and then we can have leisure for discourse on theweighty matters you have touched upon."

  She bowed courteously, as she turned with a slow, unfaltering step toleave the room. Her resumed dignity recalled the bewildered senses ofher son, and, with graceful courtesy, he invited the knight to followhim, 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; andthen, 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 thetented field and battle's roar, urging me on, even should all othervoice be hushed?"

  "Forgettest thou I am a Comyn, Nigel? That the dark stain of traitor, ofdisloyalty is withering on our line, and wider and wider grows thebarrier 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; andthough 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 Scotlandare yet in store!"