While these fearful scenes were passing in the hunting-lodge, Malcolm,
the young page already mentioned, had contrived to elude the vigilance
of the earl's numerous followers, and reach the brow of the hollow in
perfect safety. Endowed with a sense and spirit above his years, and
inspired by his devoted attachment to the countess and Sir Alan, the boy
did not merely think of his own personal security, and of the simple act
of warning the king against the treachery which awaited his return, but,
with an eye and mind well practised in intelligent observation, he
scanned the numbers, character, and peculiar situation of the foes which
had so unexpectedly come upon them. Being peculiarly small and light in
figure, and completely clothed in a dark green tunic and hose, which was
scarcely discernible from the trees and shrubs around, he stole, in and
out every brake and hollow, clambering lightly and noiselessly over
crags, hanging like a broken branch from stunted trees, leaping with the
elasticity of a youthful fawn over stream and shrub, and thus obtained a
true and exact idea of the matter he desired. The boy's heart did indeed
sink as he felt rescue would be utterly impossible; that in one
direction the English force extended nearly a mile, guarding every
avenue, every hollow in the forest, till it seemed next to impossible
King Robert could escape, even if forewarned. Wherever he turned his
steps the enemy appeared to lurk, but he wavered not in his purpose.
Aware of the direction which the king would take in returning, Malcolm
slackened not his speed until some three hours after he had quitted the
hollow, and he stood before his sovereign well-nigh too exhausted for
the utterance of his tale.
The first impulse of the king and his true-hearted followers was to dare
all danger, and rescue the countess and her brave son at the expense of
their lives; but Malcolm, flinging himself at the feet of Robert,
adjured him, in the name of the countess, to remember and act upon the
vow he had so solemnly pledged at parting. He earnestly and emphatically
repeated the last injunctions of his lady, her deep anguish that the
king, the savior of Scotland, should hazard all for her and her
child--better they should die than Robert; but these entreaties were but
anguish to the noble spirit who heard, aye, and felt their truth, though
abide by them he could not. Again and again he questioned and
cross-questioned as to their numbers and their strength, but Malcolm
never wavered from his first account; clearly and concisely he gave
every required information, and with bleeding hearts that little band of
patriots felt they dared not hope to rescue and to conquer. Yet tacitly
to assent to necessity, to retreat without one blow, to leave their
faithful companions to death, without one stroke for vengeance at least,
if not for relief, this should not be.
"We will see with our own eyes, hear with our own ears, at least, my
friends," King Robert said. "Is there one among ye would retreat, from,
the narrative of a child, true as it may be? Remember the pass in
Argyle; if necessary, your sovereign can protect your retreat now as
then, and we shall at least feel we have struggled to rescue, striven
for the mastery, even if it be in vain. Were my death, aye, the death of
Scotland the forfeit, I could not so stain my knightly fame by such
retreat. Let but the morning dawn, and we will ourselves mark the
strength of our foes."
There was not one dissenting voice, rash as his determination might
appear. The extraordinary skill and courage of their sovereign,
displayed in so many instances during their perilous wanderings, were
too fresh in their memories to permit of one doubt, one fear, even had
he led them on to certain death. To throw themselves from their tired
chargers, to give them food, to lie down themselves for a brief repose
on the turf, that they might be strengthened and cheered for the work of
the morning, all this did not occupy much time; and if their slumbers
were brief and troubled, it did not prevent their rising with, alacrity
at the first peep of day to polish their arms, look to the sharpening of
their swords and spears, share the rude huntsman's meal, and mount and
ride with the first signal of their king.
But bold and brave as were these true-hearted men, successful as,
comparatively speaking, they were in the numberless skirmishes which
took place that day, darkness overtook them, with increase of glory
indeed, but no nearer the accomplishment of their object than they had
been in the morning.
With bitter sorrow King Robert had perceived the full confirmation of
the page's words. The early close of the night attendant on the autumn
season was also unfavorable to his views; the events of the day had
fully convinced him that many an ambush was set in his path, that his
personal safety was wholly incompatible with a night attack, and
therefore he was compelled to remain on the defensive in one spot, which
was fortunately barricaded and concealed by Nature, during the many long
and weary hours forming an October night. Yet still the following day
beheld him struggling on, in the face alike of disappointment, defeat,
and danger the most imminent; still seeking the same object, still
hoping against hope, and retreating only because the welfare of his
country, of her unfortunate children, depended upon him; bands more and
more numerous pressed upon him, coming from every side, that scarcely
was one skilfully eluded ere he had to struggle against another. Nothing
but the most consummate skill, the most patient courage, and coolest
address could have extricated him from the fearful dangers which
encompassed him. Again did his followers believe he bore a charmed life,
for not only did he deal destruction, unhurt himself, but after three
days almost incessant fighting and fatigue, he had brought them to a
place of safety, with but the loss of five-and-twenty men.
But though painfully conscious that further efforts for the rescue of
his friends were completely useless, King Robert could not rest
satisfied without some more accurate knowledge of their fate, and after
some hurried yet anxious consultation. Sir James Douglas, with that
daring which so marked his simplest action, declared that at all risks
he would seek some tidings that would end their anxiety. In the disguise
of a peasant he would be secure from all discovery, he said; and he had
not the slightest fear as to the success of the adventure. Five others
started up as he spoke entreating permission to take the same disguise
and accompany him. It was granted; King Robert advising them, however,
to adopt a diversity of costume, and keep each one apart as they
approached inhabited districts, as their numbers might excite suspicion,
even though the actual disguise was complete. With arms concealed
beneath their various disguises, they departed that same evening,
engaging to meet the king at the base of Ben-Cruchan, some miles more
south than their present trysting. It was an anxious parting, and yet
more when they were actually gone; for the high spirit and vein of humor
which characterized the young Lord Douglas had power to cheer his
friends even in the most painful moments. King Robert, indeed, exerted
himself, but this last stroke had been a heavy one; knowing so well the
character of Edward, he trembled both for the countess and her noble
son, perhaps less for the latter than the former, for he hoped and
believed the Earl of Buchan, if indeed he were their captor, would at
least have some mercy on his son, but for the countess he knew that
there was no hope. The character, the sentiments of the earl had been
noticed by the Bruce when both were at the court of Edward, and he felt
and knew that any excuse to rid him of a wife whose virtues were
obnoxious to him would be acted on with joy. And here, perhaps, it may
be well to say a few words as to the real nature of King Robert's
sentiments towards Isabella of Buchan, as from the anxiety her detention
occasioned they may be so easily misunderstood.
We have performed our task but ill if our readers have imagined aught
but the most purely noble, most chivalric sentiments actuated the heart
of the king. Whatever might have been the nature of those sentiments in
earlier days, since his marriage with the daughter of the Earl of Mar
they had never entered his soul.
He had always believed the Lady Isabella's union with Lord John Comyn
was one of choice, not of necessity, nor did his visit to her after the
battle of Falkirk recall any former feeling. His mind had been under the
heavy pressure of that self-reproach which the impressive words of
Wallace had first awakened; the wretched state of his country, the
tyranny of Edward, occupied the mind of the man in which the emotions of
the boy had merged. He was, too, a husband and a father; and he was, as
his fond wife so trustingly believed, too nobly honorable to entertain
one thought to her dishonor. He looked on Isabella of Buchan as one
indeed demanding his utmost esteem and gratitude, his most faithful
friendship, and he secretly vowed that she should have it; but these
emotions took not their coloring from the past, they were excited simply
by her high-minded devotion to the cause of her country, her unshrinking
patriotism, her noble qualities, alike as a mother, subject, friend. He
felt but as one noble spirit ever feels for a kindred essence,
heightened perhaps by the dissimilarity of sex, but aught of love, even
in its faintest shadow, aught of dishonorable feelings towards her or
his own wife never entered his wildest dream. It was the recollection of
her unwavering loyalty, of the supporting kindness she had ever shown
his queen, which occasioned his bitter sorrow at her detention by the
foe; it was the dread that the cruel wrath of Edward would indeed
condemn her to death for the active part she had taken in his
coronation; the conviction, so agonizing to a mind like his, that he had
no power to rescue and avenge; the fearful foreboding that thus would
all his faithful friends fall from him--this, only this, would be the
reward of all who served and loved him; and even while still, with
undaunted firmness, cheering the spirits of his adherents, speaking hope
to them, his own inward soul was tortured with doubts as to the wisdom
of his resistance, lingering regrets for the fate of those of his
friends already lost to him, and painful fears for the final doom of
those who yet remained.
It was in such moments of despondency that remorse, too, ever gained
dominion, and heightened his inward struggles. Robert's hand was not
framed for blood; his whole soul revolted from the bitter remembrance of
that fatal act of passion which had stained his first rising. He would
have given worlds, if he had had them, to have recalled that deed. Busy
fancy represented a hundred ways of punishing treachery other than that
which his fury had adopted; and this remembrance ever increased the
anguish with which he regarded the fate of his friends. His lot was
indeed as yet one of unexampled suffering, borne by heroism as great as
unequalled but the lustre of the latter too frequently dazzles the mind,
and prevents the full meed of glory being obtained. His heroism is known
to all, his sufferings to but a few; but perhaps it was the latter yet
more than the former which gave to Scotland the glory and honor she
acquired in his reign. Heroism is scarce separable from ambition, but to
mere ambition, the voice of suffering is seldom heard. Heroism dazzles
the crowd, suffering purifies the man. If Robert the Bruce were
ambitious, the passion in him assumed a nobler and better form; yet we
can scarcely call that ambition which sought but the delivery of
Scotland from chains, but the regaining an ancient heritage, and sought
no more. It was patriotism hallowed by suffering, purified by adversity;
patriotism the noblest, purest which ever entered the heart of man.
King Robert and his handful of followers not only reached their
trysting-place themselves, but were joined by the queen, and many of her
female companions and their attendant warriors, ere Lord James of
Douglas returned; three of his companions had straggled in, one by one,
with various accounts, but none so satisfactory as the king desired, and
he believed with justice, that Douglas lingered to bring, if not
satisfactory (for that, alas! could not be) yet accurate intelligence.
If aught could have comforted Agnes in these moments of agonized
suspense, it would have been not alone the redoubled affection of her
Nigel, but the soothing kindness, the love and sympathy of a father,
which was lavished on her by King Robert; nay, each of those rude
warriors softened in address and tone, as they looked on and spoke to
that fair, fragile being, whom they feared now stood alone. She did not
weep when other eyes than those of Nigel, or the Lady Campbell, or the
gentle Isoline were on her, but that deadly pallor, that quivering lip,
and heavy eye spoke all that she endured.
A large cavern, divided by Nature into many compartments, was now the
temporary shelter of the king and his friends. It was situated at the
base of Ben-Cruchan, which, though at the entrance of the territories of
Lorn, was now comparatively secure, the foe imagining the Bruce still
amidst the mountains of Aberdeenshire.
The evening meal was spread; a huge fire blazing in the stony cavity
removed all appearance of damp or discomfort, and shed a warm, ruddy
light on the groups within. It was a rude home for the King of Scotland
and his court, yet neither murmuring nor despondency was marked on the
bold brows of the warriors, or the gentler and paler features of their
faithful companions; their frames, indeed, showed the effect of
wandering and anxiety; many an eye which had been bright was sunken,
many a blooming cheek was paled; but the lip yet smiled, the voice had
yet its gleesome tones to soothe and cheer their warrior friends; the
eager wish to prepare the couch and dress the simple meal, to perform
those many little offices of love and kindness so peculiarly a woman's,
and engaged in with a zest, a skill which was intuitive, for there had
been a time, and one not far distant, when those high-born females
little dreamed such household deeds would be their occupation.
Brightly and beautifully shone forth conjugal and filial love in those
wandering hours; the wife, the child, the sister bound themselves yet
closer to the warrior husband, father, brother, which claimed them his.
Yet sweet, most sweet as were those acts of love, there were anxious and
loving hearts which felt that soon, too soon, they must part from them,
they must persuade those gentle ones to accede to a temporary
separation--they could not, they would not expose them to the snows and
killing frosts of a Scottish winter.
Anxiety, deep anxiety was on the heart of King Robert, becoming more
painful with each glance he fixed on Agnes, who was sitting apart with
Nigel, her aching head resting on his shoulder, but he strove to return
the caresses of his daughter, to repay with fond smiles the exertions of
his wife. Sir Niel Campbell (who, after many painful trials, had
rejoined the king) and others strove to disperse the silently gathering
gloom by jest and song, till the cavern walls re-echoed with their
soldier mirth. Harshly and mournfully it fell on the ear and heart of
the maiden of Buchan, but she would not have it stilled.
"No, no; do thou speak to me, Nigel, and I shall only list to thee. Why
should the noble efforts of these brave men--for I know even to them
mirth is now an effort--be chilled and checked, because my sick heart
beats not in unison? Oh, when will Lord James return?"
Nigel sought to soothe, to speak hope, but though his words fell like
balm on the bleeding heart he held to his, it was the rich melody of
their voice, not the matter of their meaning.
The hour of rest was fast approaching, when the well-known signal was
heard without, and the young Lord Douglas, with his two companions, were
hastily and eagerly admitted within the cave. Their looks denoted great
fatigue, and the eager eyes which scanned their countenances read little
to hope, yet much, much, alas! to fear.
"Thou hast so far succeeded as to obtain the intelligence we need," was
the king's instant greeting, as he released his favorite young follower
from his embrace; "that I can read, but further, I fear me, thou hast
little to communicate which we shall love to hear."
"My tidings are ill indeed, your highness; aggravated and most
undreamed-of ill. But, perchance," and the young man hesitated, for his
eye caught the pallid face of Agnes, who had irresistibly drawn closer
to the circle about the king, and fixed her eyes on him with an
expression almost wild in its agony, "perchance they had better first
meet your grace's private ear."
"No, no!" reiterated Agnes, springing forward, and clinging convulsively
to his arm. "It is only me thou fearest, I know; I know thou wouldst
spare me, but do not, do not. I can bear all, every thing, save this
horrible suspense; speak out, let me but know all, and then I can teach
my soul to bear it. Oh, do not hesitate, do not pause; in mercy, tell
me--oh, tell me all!"
Thus adjured, but feeling most painfully the suffering his tale would
produce, Douglas struggled with his own emotion, and repeated all the
information he had obtained. Guardedly as he spoke, evidently as he
endeavored to prepare the mind of Agnes, and thus soften its woe, his
tale was yet such as to harrow up the hearts of all his hearers, how
much more the frail and gentle being to whom it more immediately
related; yet she stood calm, pale, indeed, and quivering, but with a
desperate effort conquering the weakness of her nature, and bearing that
deep woe as the daughter of her mother, the betrothed of Nigel Bruce.
The young lord's information was simply this. On nearing the
hunting-lodge, which was his first object, he found it very nearly
deserted, but a few stragglers, amounting perhaps to fifty in number of
the followers of Buchan, remaining behind, with orders to follow their
master to Dunkeld without delay. Mingling with these as a countryman of
the more northern counties, eager to obtain every species of
intelligence respecting the movements of the English and the hunted
Bruce, whom he pretended to condemn and vilify after the fashion of the
Anglo-Scots, and feeling perfectly secure not only in the disguise he
had assumed, but in the peculiar accent and intonation of the
north-country peasant, which he could assume at pleasure, he made
himself a welcome guest, and with scarcely any trouble received much of
the information he desired. He was told of the first capture and rescue
of the Countess of Buchan; that it was through one of the men left for
dead on the scene of the skirmish the earl had received such exact
information concerning the movements and intended destination of the
Bruce; that immediately on receiving this intelligence he had gathered
all his force, amounting to five hundred men, and dividing them into
different bands, sent skilful guides with each, and was thus enabled to
surround the lodge, and command five different avenues of the forest,
without interruption or discovery. He learned, too, that a stormy
interview had taken place between the earl, his wife, and son, the
particulars of which, however, had not transpired; that the earl's rage
had been terrific when he found the night passed, and the Bruce had not
fallen into the snare laid for him; and he had sworn a fearful oath,
that if the countess would not betray him into his power, her son should
die; that both mother and son had stood this awful trial without
shrinking; that no word either to betray their king or implore life and
mercy had been wrung from them. Incensed beyond all measure, Buchan had
sent on the countess with a numerous guard, his men believed, either to
Dunkeld or Perth, in both of which towns there was a strong garrison of
English, and lingered yet another day and night in the hope of dragging
some intelligence from the lips of Alan, or persuading him into acting
the spy upon the actions and movements of the Bruce. He succeeded in
neither; and the men continued to state, with shuddering horror, which
even their rude natures could not suppress, that they believed the son
had actually fallen a victim to his father's rage--that he had actually
been murdered. Numerous reports to that effect had been circulated on
all sides, and though they had watched narrowly, they had seen nothing
to contradict it. The body of the unfortunate boy had been cast into a
deep well, heaps of rubbish flung over it, and the well built up. This
they knew as a positive certainty, for they had seen it.
Douglas heard this tale with an intensity of horror, of loathing, which
at first deprived him almost of every other feeling; but when he could
withdraw himself from the horrible idea, a species of disbelief took
possession of him. It was impossible such utter depravity, such fearful
insensibility to the claims of nature could exist in the breast of any
man; it was a tale forged to inflict fresh agony on the mother's heart,
and he determined on discovering, if possible, the truth. He pretended
entirely to disbelieve it; declared it was not possible; that the earl
had practised on their credulity, and would laugh at them afterwards;
and contrived so well, that three or four declared he should be
convinced with his own eyes, and set about pulling down the slight
brickwork which covered the well. This was what Douglas wanted, and he
eagerly lent them a helping hand.
A body there was indeed, in form and in clothing so exactly that of the
unhappy Alan, that, even though the face was so marred it could not be
recognized, the young earl could doubt no longer; the young, the brave,
the beautiful, and true, had fallen a victim to his own patriot loyalty,
and by a father's hand. The deep suffering this certainly occasioned was
regarded by his companions as sulkiness for having been proved wrong in
his judgment; they jeered and laughed at him accordingly, and harshly as
these sounds reverberated in his heart, they were welcome, as enabling
him still more easily to continue his disguise.
He accompanied them to Dunkeld, and found the earl had proceeded with
his wife as prisoner to the castle of Stirling, there to deliver her
over to the Earl of Hereford, through whom to be sent on to Edward.
Determined on seeing her, if possible, Douglas resolved on daring the
danger, and venturing even to the very stronghold of his foes. The
horror which this unnatural act of the earl had excited in the minds of
his men, he found had extended even over those in Dunkeld, and through
them he learned that, directly on reaching the town, the earl had sought
the countess, brutally communicated the death of her son, and placed in
her hands the raven curls as all which remained of him, some of which
were dabbled in blood; that she had remained apparently unmoved while in
his presence, but the moment he left her had sunk into a succession of
the most fearful fainting fits, in one of which she had been removed to
Stirling.
Withdrawing himself from his companions, under pretence of returning to
his home in the north, having, he said, loitered too long, Douglas
concealed himself for some days in the abbey of Scone, the holy inmates
of which still retained their loyalty and patriotism, notwithstanding
their revered abbot, unable to remain longer inactive, had donned the
warrior's dress, and departed to join and fight with his king. Assuming
the cowl and robes of one of the lay brothers, and removing the red wig
and beard he had adopted with his former costume, the young lord took
the staff in his hand, and with difficulty bringing his hasty pace to a
level with the sober step and grave demeanor of a reverend monk, reached
Stirling just as the cavalcade, with the litter intended for the captive
countess, had assembled before the castle gate. Agitated almost beyond
the power of control, Douglas made his way through the gathering crowds,
and stood unquestioned close beside the litter. He did not wait long.
Respectfully supported by the Earl of Hereford himself, the Countess of
Buchan, with a firm, unfaltering step, approached the litter. The hood
was thrown back, and Douglas could read the effects of withering agony
on the marble stillness of those beautiful features, though to all else
they spoke but firm and calm resolve; there was not a vestige of color
on cheek or lip or brow; and though her figure was as commanding, as
majestic as heretofore, there was a fearful attenuation about it,
speaking volumes to Lord James's heart. Hereford placed her in the
litter, and with a respectful salutation turned away to give some
necessary orders to his men. Bold in his disguise, Douglas bent over the
countess, and spoke in a low, feigned voice those words of comfort and
of peace suited to his assumed character; but feigned as it was, the
countess recognized him on that instant; a convulsive shudder passed
through her every limb, contracting her features with very agony.
"My child--my Alan!" she whispered, harrowing his very soul beneath that
voice's thrilling woe. "Douglas, hast thou heard?--yes, yes; I can read
it in thine awe-struck face. This, this is all I have left of him," and
she partly drew from her bosom the clustering ringlets he recognized at
once; "yet, wherefore should I mourn him: he is happy. Bid his memory be
honored among ye; and oh, tell the sovereign for whom he fell, better a
death like this than treachery and shame."
She had paused as fearing observation, but perceiving the attention of
all more fixed on the glittering cavalcade than on herself, she placed
one of those glossy curls in the young earl's hand, and continued--
"Give this to my poor Agnes, with her mother's blessing, and bid her
take comfort, bid her not weep and mourn for me. A prison, even death is
preferable now to life, for she is cared for. I trust her to Sir Nigel's
love; I know that he will tend her as a brother till a happier hour
makes her all his own. Commend me to my sovereign, and tell him, might I
choose my path again, despite its anguish, 'twould be that which I have
trod. And now farewell, young lord, I bless thee for this meeting."
"Dominus vobiscum mea filia, et vale," responded the supposed monk, in a
loud voice, for he had only time to assure the countess by a look of
deep sympathy of his willingness to execute her simplest wish, and hide
the ringlet in his bosom, ere Hereford turned towards him, with a gaze
of stern inquiry. Ably concealing alike his emotion and the expression
of his countenance, Douglas evaded discovery, and even obtained
permission to follow the litter to the environs of the town. He did so,
but the countess addressed him not again; and it was with a
heart-sinking despondency he had turned to the mountains, when the
cavalcade disappeared from his view. He retained his monkish garb till
he entered the mountain district, where he fell in with his two
companions, and they proceeded, as we have seen, to the quarters of
their king.
A pause of horror followed his narrative, told more forcibly and briefly
by the lips of Douglas than through the cooler medium of the historian's
pen. Stunned, overwhelmed, as if incapable of movement or speech, though
sense remained, Agnes stood insensible, even to the voice of Nigel,
whose soothing accents strove to whisper peace; but when Douglas placed
in her cold hand the raven curls she knew so well, when tenderly yet
earnestly he repeated her mother's words, the poor girl repeatedly
pressed the hair to her parched lips, and laid it in her bosom; and then
perceiving the sad and anxious face of her beloved, she passed her hand
hurriedly over her brow, and burying her head on his breast, sense was
preserved by an agony of tears.
It was long, long ere this aggravated wretchedness was calmed, though
the love of many, the devotion of one were ever round her to strengthen
and console. Sympathy, the most heartfelt, reigned in every bosom. Of
the many misfortunes which had befallen this patriot band, this seemed,
if not really the severest, more fraught with horror than any which had
come before; the youth, the gallant bearing, the endearing qualities of
the heir of Buchan stood forth with vivid clearness in the memories of
all, and there were times when they felt it could not be, it was too
fearful; and then again, the too certain evidence of the fact, witnessed
as it had been by one of such tried truth as James of Douglas, brought
conviction too clearly home, and the sternest warrior, who would have
faced his own captivity and death unmoved, felt no shame in the dimness
which gathered in his eye for the fearful fate of the murdered boy.
In King Robert's breast these emotions obtained yet more powerful
dominion; again did remorse distract him, and there were moments of
darkness, when his spirit questioned the justice of the Creator. Why was
not his crime visited on his own head? Why did the guiltless and
unstained fall thus around him, and he remain unharmed? and it needed
all the eloquence of Nigel, the pious reasonings of the Abbot of Scone,
to convince him that, dark and inscrutable as the decrees of Omnipotence
sometimes seemed, in his case they were as clear as the wisdom from
which they sprung. By chastisement he was purified; he was not yet fit
to receive the reward of the righteous waiting on death. Destined to be
the savior of his unhappy country, the remorse which bowed down his
naturally haughty spirit was more acceptable in the sight of his God,
more beneficial to his own soul, than the one act of devotedness
included in a brave man's death. Robert struggled with his despondency,
with his soul's deep grief, known as it was but to himself, his
confessor, and his young brother; he felt its encouragement would
unnerve him for his destined task. Other imperative matters now pressed
round him, and by presenting fresh and increased danger, roused his
energies once more to their wonted action.
The winter had set in with unexampled severity, overwhelming snow-storms
filled up the rude paths of the mountains, till egress and ingress
appeared impossible. The Earl of Athol himself, who had been the
inseparable companion of the Bruce in all his wanderings, now spoke of
retiring, and passing the winter within stone walls, urging his
sovereign with earnest eloquence to take refuge in Ireland till the
spring, when they would reassemble under arms, and perhaps take the
tyrant Edward once more by surprise.
Bruce knew the veteran nobleman too well to attribute this advice to any
motive save deep interest in his safety. He saw, too, that it was
utterly impossible for them to remain as they then were, without serious
evils alike to his female and male companions; the common soldiers,
steady and firm as they still continued in loyalty, yet were continually
dispersing, promising to reassemble in the spring, but declaring that it
was useless to think of struggling against the English, when the very
elements were at war against them. With a sad foreboding, Robert saw,
and communicated to his devoted wife the necessity of their separation.
He felt that it was right and best, and therefore he resisted all her
tearful entreaties still to linger by his side; her child was suffering,
for her tender years could not bear up against the cold and the want of
proper nourishment, and yet even that claim seemed less to the mother's
heart than the vision of her husband enduring increase of hardship
alone. Her acquiescence was indeed at length obtained, but dimmed by
many very bitter tears.
A hasty consultation with his few remaining friends speedily decided the
Bruce's plans. The castle of Kildrummie, a strong fortress situated at
the head of the Don, in Aberdeenshire, yet remained to him, and thither,
under the escort of his brother Nigel and three hundred men, the king
determined to send his wife and child, and the other ladies of his
court. Himself, his three brothers, Edward, Alexander, and Thomas,
Douglas, Sir Niel Campbell, and his remaining two hundred followers,
resolved on cautiously making their way southward across Loch Lomond,
and proceed thence to the coast of Ireland, there to await the spring.
In pursuance of this plan, Sir Niel Campbell was dispatched without
delay to conciliate Angus, Lord of the Isles, to whom Cantire then
belonged. Knowing he was unfriendly to his near neighbors, the Lords of
Lorn, the king trusted he should find in him a powerful ally. To appeal
yet more strongly to the chivalric hospitality which characterized the
chieftain, Sir Niel consented that his wife and daughter Isoline should
accompany him. Lady Campbell had too lately undergone the grief and
anxiety attendant on the supposed loss of her husband to consent to
another parting. Even the king, her brother, sought not to dissuade her;
but all persuasions to induce Agnes to accompany them were vain; bitter
as the pang of separation was to her already aching heart--for Lady
Campbell and Isoline were both most dear to her--she steadily resolved
to remain with the queen and her attendants, and thus share the fate of
her betrothed.
"Did not my mother commend me to thy care? Did she not bid thee tend me
as a brother until happier hours, and shall I seek other guardianship
than thine, my Nigel?" were her whispered words, and Nigel could not
answer them. So pure, so unselfish was her love, that though he felt his
happiness would have departed with her presence, could he have commanded
words he would have implored her to seek the hospitality of the Lord of
the Isles as a securer home than Kildrummie. Those forebodings already
alluded to had returned with darker weight from the hour his separation
from his brother was resolved on. He evinced no sign of his inward
thoughts, he uttered no word of dissent, for the trust reposed in him by
his sovereign was indeed as precious as it was honorable; but there was
a mournful expression on his beautiful countenance--when unobserved, it
would rest upon his brother--that Agnes could not define, although it
filled her spirit with incomprehensible alarm, and urged her yet more to
abide by his side.
The dreaded day arrived at length, and agonized was indeed that parting.
Cheerfully the king looked, and hopefully he spoke, but it had no power
to calm the whelming tide of sorrow in which his wife clung to his
embrace. Again and again she returned to that faithful heart which bore
so fondly, so forbearingly, with all her faults and weaknesses; and
Margory, although she could not comprehend the extent of sorrow
experienced by her mother, wept bitterly at her side. Nor were they the
only sufferers. Some indeed were fortunate enough to have relatives amid
the band which accompanied them to Kildrummie, but by far the greater
number clung to the necks of brothers, fathers, husbands, whose faithful
and loving companions they had been so long--clung to them and wept, as
if a long dim vista of sorrow and separation stretched before them.
Danger, indeed, was around them, and the very fact of their being thus
compelled to divide, appeared to heighten the perils, and tacitly
acknowledge them as too great to be endured.
With pain and difficulty the iron-souled warriors at length tore
themselves from the embrace of those they held most dear. The knights
and their followers had closed round the litters, and commenced their
march. No clarion sent its shrill blast on the mountain echoes, no
inspiring drum reverberated through the glens--all was mournfully still;
as the rudest soldier revered the grief he beheld, and shrunk from
disturbing it by a sound.
King Robert stood alone, on the spot where Sir Christopher Seaton had
borne from him his wife and child. His eyes still watched their litter;
his thoughts still lingered with them alone; full of affection, anxiety,
sadness, they were engrossed, but not defined. He was aroused by the
sudden appearance of his younger brother, who, bareheaded, threw himself
at his feet, and, in a voice strangely husky, murmured--
"My sovereign, my brother, bless me, oh, bless me, ere we part!"
"My blessing--the blessing of one they deem accursed; and to thee, good,
noble, stainless as thou art! Nigel, Nigel, do not mock me thus,"
answered the king, bitterness struggling with the deepest melancholy, as
he laid his hand, which strangely trembled, on the young man's lowered
head. "Alas! bring I not evil and misery and death on all who love me?
What, what may my blessing bring to thee?"
"Joy, bright joy in the hour of mirth and comfort; oh, untold-of comfort
in the time of sorrow, imprisonment, death! My brother, my brother, oh,
refuse it not; thou knowest not, thou canst not know how Nigel loves
thee!"
Robert gazed at him till every thought, every feeling was lost in the
sudden sensation of dread lest ill should come to him; it had overtaken
one as fair in promise, as beloved, and yet younger; and oh, if death
selected the best, the loveliest, the dearest, would it next fall on
him? The thought was such absolute agony, that the previous suffering
of that hour was lost before it.
"Bless thee--oh, may God in heaven bless thee, my brave, my noble
Nigel!" he exclaimed, with a burst of emotion, perfectly appalling in
one generally so controlled, and raising him, he strained him
convulsively to his heart. "Yet why should we part?" he added, after a
long pause; "why did I fix on thee for this office--are there not
others? Nigel, Nigel, say but the word, and thou shalt rest with me:
danger, privation, exile we have borne, and may still share together.
Why should I send thee from me, dearest, most beloved of all who call me
brother?"
"Why?" answered Nigel, raising his glistening eyes from his brother's
shoulder, "why, dear Robert? because thine eye could read my heart and
trust it; because thou knewest I would watch over those who bear thy
name, who are dear to thee, even as thy noble self. Oh, do not repent
thee of thy choice; 'tis hard to bear alone danger, so long encountered
hand in hand, yet as thou hast decided let it be. Thy words have soothed
my yearning heart, which craved to list thy voice once more; and now
then, my noble liege and brother, farewell. Think on thy Nigel's words;
even when misery is round thee thou shalt, thou shalt be blessed. Think
on them, my Robert, and then when joy and liberty and conquest crown
thee, oh, forget not Nigel."
He threw his arms around him, imprinted a fervent kiss on his cheek, and
was out of sight ere the king by sign or word could arrest his progress.
One hasty bound forward Robert indeed made, but a dimness stole over his
sight, and for one brief minute he sunk down on the grass, and when he
lifted his head again, there were burning tears upon his cheek.