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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 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!"