The ancient town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, associated as it is with
Scottish and English history from the time these two kingdoms had a
name, presented a somewhat different aspect in the year 1307 to that of
the present day. The key to both countries, it was ever a scene of
struggle, unless the sister kingdoms chanced to be at peace, an event in
the middle ages of rare occurrence, and whoever was its fortunate
possessor was undeniably considered as the greater power. Since the
death of Alexander it had been captured no less than three times by
Edward in 1296, by Wallace the succeeding year, and recaptured by the
English the following spring. To Edward, consequently, it now belonged,
and many and fearful had been the sanguinary executions its walls had
beheld. Its streets had been deluged with noble Scottish blood; its
prisons filled with the nobles of Scotland; even high-minded women, who
by their countenance and faithfulness had given a yet higher tone to
patriotism and valor, were said to be there immured. It might have been
termed not alone the key, but the dungeon and grave of Scotland; and
many a noble spirit which had never quailed in the battle's front,
shrunk back appalled as it neared those dismal walls.
In the time of Edward, the fortifications, though merely consisting of a
deep moat and wooden palisades, instead of the stone wall still
remaining, inclosed a much larger space than the modern town. A
magnificent castle, with its "mounts, rampiers, and flankers," its
towers, walls, and courts, crowned an easy ascent overhanging the Tweed,
and was at this period peopled by a powerful garrison, filled with
immense stores, both of arms, artillery, and provisions, and many
unhappy prisoners, who from their lonely turrets could look beyond the
silver Tweed on their own beautiful land, their hearts burning with the
vain desire to free her from her chains. Both square and round towers
guarded the palisades and moat surrounding the town, which presented a
goodly collection of churches, hospitals, dwelling-houses, stores, and
monastic buildings; from all of which crowds were continually passing
and repassing on their several ways, and forming altogether a motley
assemblage of knights, nobles, men-at-arms, archers, the various orders
of monks, the busy leech from the hospital, the peaceful burgher, the
bustling storekeeper, and artisan, noble dames and pretty maidens--all
in the picturesque costumes of the day, jostling one another,
unconscious of the curious effect they each assisted to produce, and
ever and anon came the trampling of fiery steeds. It was a rich,
thriving, bustling town, always presenting curious scenes of activity,
at present apparently under some excitement, which the gay knights and
their followers tended not a little to increase.
The popular excitement had, strange to say, been confined for an
unusually long time to one subject. Orders had been received from King
Edward for the erection of an extraordinary cage or tower, curiously
worked in stone and iron, on the very highest turret of the castle,
visible to every eye, of a circular form, with pyramidal points,
supporting gilded balls, giving it the appearance, when completed, of a
huge coronet or crown. It was barred and cross-barred with iron on all
sides, effectually preventing egress from within, but exposing its
inmate, whoever that might be, to every passer-by. The impatient king
had commanded several of the artisans employed in its erection to be
thrown into prison, because it was not completed fast enough to please
him; but, despite his wrath and impatience, the work of fashioning the
iron, wood, and stone, as he required, occasioned them to proceed but
slowly, and it was now, three months after the royal order had been
given, only just completed, and firmly fixed on the principal turret of
the castle. Day after day the people flocked to gaze and marvel for whom
it could be intended, and when it would be occupied; their thoughts only
turned from it by the intelligence that the Earl of Hereford, with some
Scottish prisoners of high rank, was within four-and-twenty hours' march
of the town, and was there to deliver up his captives to the seneschal
of the castle, the Earl of Berwick. At the same time rumors were afloat,
that the prisoner for whom that cage had been erected was, under a
strong guard, advancing from Carlisle, and likely to encounter Hereford
at the castle gates.
The popular excitement increased threefold; the whole town seemed under
the influence of a restless fever, utterly preventing the continuance of
their usual avocations, or permitting them to rest quiet in their
houses. Crowds filled the streets, and pressed and fumed to obtain
places by the great gates and open squares of the castle, through which
both parties must pass. That wind, rain, and sunshine alternately ruled
the day, was a matter of small importance; nor did it signify that
English soldiers were returning victorious, with Scottish prisoners,
being a thing now of most common occurrence. Before the day was over,
however, they found anticipation for once had been less marvellous than
reality, and stranger things were seen and heard than they had dreamed
of.
From sunrise till noon they waited and watched, and waxed impatient in
vain. About that time trumpets and drums were heard from the south, and
there was a general rush towards the bridge, and hearts beat high in
expectancy of they knew not what, as a gallant band of English archers
and men-at-arms, headed by some few knights, were discovered slowly and
solemnly advancing from the Carlisle road. Where, and who was the
prisoner? A person of some consequence, of dangerous influence it must
be, else why had the king made such extraordinary provision for
confinement? There were not wanting suggestions and guesses, and
wondrous fancies; for as yet there was such a close guard in the centre
of the cavalcade, that the very person of the prisoner could not be
distinguished. Nay, there were some who ventured to hint and believe it
might be the excommunicated Earl of Carrick himself. It was most likely,
for whom else could the cage, so exactly like a crown, be intended? and
there were many who vaunted the wise policy of Edward, at having hit on
such an expedient for lowering his rival's pride. Others, indeed,
declared the idea was all nonsense; it was not likely he would incur
such expense, king as he was, merely to mortify a traitor he had sworn
to put to death. The argument waxed loud and warm. Meanwhile the
cavalcade had crossed the bridge, been received through the south gate,
and in the same slow and solemn pomp proceeded through the town.
"By all the saints, it is only a woman!" was the information shouted by
an eager spectator, who had clambered above the heads of his fellows to
obtain the first and most coveted view. His words were echoed in blank
amazement.
"Aye, clothed in white like a penitent, with her black hair streaming
all over her shoulders, without any covering on her head at all, and
nothing but a thin, torn sandal on her bare feet; and the knights look
black as thunder, as if they like not the business they are engaged in."
It was even so. There was an expression on the face of the officers
impossible to be misunderstood; frowningly, darkly, they obeyed their
sovereign's mandate, simply because they dared not disobey; but there
was not one among them who would not rather have sought the most deadly
front of battle than thus conduct a woman, aye, and a most noble one,
unto her prison. The very men, rude, stern, as they mostly were, shared
this feeling; they guarded her with lowered heads and knitted brows; and
if either officer or man-at-arms had to address her, it was with an
involuntary yet genuine movement and manner of respect that little
accorded with their present relative position. The crowds looked first
at the cavalcade and marvelled, then at the prisoner, and they did not
marvel more.
Clad as she was, in white, flowing garments, very similar to those worn
by penitents, her head wholly undefended from cold or rain even by a
veil; her long, luxuriant, jet-black hair, in which as yet, despite of
care and woe, no silver thread had mingled, falling round her from her
noble brow, which shone forth from its shade white as snow, and
displaying that most perfect face, which anguish had only chiselled into
paler, purer marble; it could not rob it of its beauty, that beauty
which is the holy emanation of the soul, _that_ lingered still with
power to awe the rudest heart, to bow the proudest in voluntary respect.
The sovereign of England had commanded this solemn procession and its
degrading accompaniments to humble, to crush to dust, the woman who had
dared defy his power, but it was himself alone he humbled. As she walked
there, surrounded by guards, by gazing hundreds, on foot, and but
protected from the flinty ground by a thin sandal, her step was as firm
and unfaltering, her attitude, her bearing as dignified, as calmly,
imposingly majestic as when, in the midst of Scotland's patriots, she
had placed the crown on the Bruce's head. Edward sought to debase her,
but she was not debased; to compel her to regret the part that she had
acted, but she gloried in it still; to acknowledge his power--but in all
he failed.
Calmly and majestically the Countess of Buchan proceeded on her way,
neither looking to the right or left, nor evincing by the slightest
variation of countenance her consciousness of the many hundreds gazing
on, or that they annoyed or disturbed her; her spirit was wrapt in
itself. We should assert falsehood did we say she did not suffer; she
did, but it was a mother's agony heightened by a patriot's grief. She
believed her son, who had been in truth the idol of her mourning heart,
had indeed fallen. Her Agnes was not amongst the queen's train, of whose
captivity she had been made aware, though not allowed speech with them.
Where was _she_--what would be her fate? She only knew her as a lovely,
fragile flower, liable to be crushed under the first storm; and pictured
her, rudely severed from Nigel, perchance in the hands of some lawless
spoiler, and heart-broken, dying. Shuddering with anguish, she thought
not of her own fate--she thought but of her children, of her country;
and if King Robert did enter these visions, it was simply as her
sovereign, as one whose patriotism would yet achieve the liberty of
Scotland; but there was a dimness even o'er that dream, for the figure
of her noble boy was gone, naught but a blank--dull, shapeless--occupied
that spot in the vision of the future, which once his light had filled.
The castle-yard was at length gained, and a half and some change in the
line of march ensued; the officers and men formed in a compact crescent,
leaving the countess, a herald, trumpeters, and some of the highest
knights, in front. So intense was the interest of the crowd at this
moment, that they did not heed the rapid advance of a gallant body of
horse and foot from the north, except to rail at the pressure they
occasioned in forcing their way through. They gained the castle-yard at
length, and there halted, and fell back in utter astonishment at the
scene they witnessed.
The herald had drawn a parchment from his belt, and made a step forward
as if to speak. The knights, in sullen silence, leant upon their
sheathed swords, without even glancing at their prisoner, who appeared
far the most composed and dignified of all present, and, after a brief
pause, words to this effect were distinguished by the crowd.
"To our loyal and loving subjects of both North and South Britain,
Edward, by the grace of God, King of England, Wales, France, and
Scotland, greeting. Whereas Isabella, born of Fife, and late of Buchan,
which latter she hath, by foul dishonor and utter disregard of marriage
vows, now forfeited, hath done traitorously and disloyally alike to her
sovereign lord the king, and to her gracious lord and husband, John,
Earl of Buchan, whom, for his fidelity, we hold in good favor. As she
hath not struck by the sword, so she shall not perish by the sword; but
for her lawless conspiracy, she shall be shut up in a stone and iron
chamber, circular as the crown she gave, in this proclaiming to both
countries her everlasting infamy. And this we do in mercy; for, whereas
she deserveth death, we do remit the same, and give her time to repent
her of her heinous crime.
"Given at our palace of Carlisle, this twenty-third day of February, in
the year of our Lord and Saviour, one thousand three hundred and seven.
God save the King!"
But the loyal ejaculation was not echoed, nay, the herald himself had
read the proclamation, as if every word had been forced from him, and
the eyes of every knight and soldier had been fixed upon the ground, as
if shame rested on them rather than on their prisoner. A dead silence
for a few minutes followed, broken only by some faint cries of "God save
King Edward, and down with all traitors!" which seemed raised more to
drown the groans which involuntarily burst forth, than as the echo of
the heart. They dared not evince the faintest sign of disapproval, for
they stood on precarious ground; a groan even might be punished by their
irritable king as treachery; but there was one present who cared little
for this charge. Scarcely had the words passed the herald's lips, before
a young man, whose bare head and lack of all weapons would have
proclaimed him one of the Earl of Hereford's prisoners, had not the
attention of all been turned from him by the one engrossing object, now
snatching a sword from a soldier near him, sprung from his horse, and
violently attacking the herald, exclaimed, in a voice of thunder--
"Liar and slave! thinkest thou there is none near to give the lie to thy
foul slanders--none to defend the fair fame, the stainless honor of this
much-abused lady? Dastard and coward, fit mouthpiece of a dishonored and
blasphemous tyrant! go tell him, his prisoner--aye, Nigel Bruce--thrusts
back his foul lies into his very teeth. Ha! coward and slave, wouldst
thou shun me?"
A scene of indescribable confusion now ensued. The herald, a man not
much in love with war, stood cowering and trembling before his
adversary, seeking to cover himself with his weapon, but, from his
trembling hold, ineffectually. The stature of the youthful Scotsman
appeared towering, as he stood over him with his uplifted sword,
refusing to strike a defenceless man, but holding him with a gripe of
iron; his cheek flushed crimson, his nostrils distended, for his soul
was moved with a mightier, darker passion than had ever stirred its
depths before. The soldiers of both parties, joined, too, by some from
the castle--for a party headed by the Earl of Berwick himself had
attended to give countenance to the proclamation--rushed forward, but
involuntarily fell back, awed for the moment by the mighty spirit of one
man; the knights, roused from their sullen posture, looked much as if
they would, if they dared, have left the herald to his fate. Hereford
and Berwick at the same instant spurred forward their steeds, the one
exclaiming, "Madman, let go your hold--you are tempting your own fate!
Nigel, for the love of heaven! for the sake of those that love you, be
not so rash!" the other thundering forth, "Cut down the traitor, an he
will not loose his hold. Forward, cowardly knaves! will ye hear your
king insulted, and not revenge it?--forward, I say! fear ye a single
man?"
And numbers, spurred on by his words, dashed forward to obey him, but
fearlessly Sir Nigel Bruce retained his hold with his left hand, and
with his right grasped tighter his sword, and stood, with the fierce
undaunted port of a lion lashed into fury, gazing on his foes; but ere
he had crossed with the foremost weapons, a slight lad burst through the
gathering crowd, and with a piercing shriek threw himself at his
master's feet, and grasping his knees, seemed by his pleading looks, for
his words were inaudible, imploring him to desist from his rashness. At
the same moment another form pressed through the soldiers, her look, her
mien compelling them involuntarily to open their ranks and give her
passage. The sword of Nigel was in the act of falling on a second foe,
the first lay at his feet, when his arm was caught in its descent, and
Isabella of Buchan stood at his side.
"Forbear!" she said, in those rich impressive tones that ever forced
obedience. "Nigel Bruce, brother of my sovereign, friend of my son,
forbear! strike not one blow for me. Mine honor needs no defence by
those that love me; my country will acquit me; the words of England's
monarch, angered at a woman's defiance of his power, affect me not!
Noble Nigel, excite not further wrath against thyself by this vain
struggle for my sake; put up thy sword, ere it is forced from thee. Let
go thy hold; this man is but an instrument, why wreak thy wrath on him?
Must I speak, implore in vain? Nay, then, I do command thee!"
And those who gazed on her, as she drew that stately form to its full
height, as they heard those accents of imperative command, scarce
marvelled that Edward should dread her influence, woman as she was.
Despite the increasing wrath on the Earl of Berwick's brow, the men
waited to see the effect of these words. There was still an expression
of ill-controlled passion on Nigel's features. He waited one moment when
she ceased to speak, then slowly and deliberately shook the herald by
the collar, and hurled him from his hold; snapped his sword in twain,
and flinging it from him, folded his arms on his breast, and calmly
uttering, "Pardon me, noble lady, mine honor were impugned had I
suffered that dastardly villain to pass hence unpunished--let Edward act
as he lists, it matters little now," waited with impenetrable resolve
the rage he had provoked.
"Nigel, Nigel, rash, impetuous boy, what hast thou done?" exclaimed the
countess, losing all mien and accent of command in the terror with which
she clung round him, as if to protect him from all ill, in the tone and
look of maternal tenderness with which she addressed him. "Why, why must
it be my ill fate to hurl down increase of misery and danger on all whom
I love?"
"Speak not so, noble lady, in mercy do not!" he whispered in reply;
"keep that undaunted spirit shown but now, I can better bear it than
this voice of anguish. And thou," he added, laying his hand on the
shoulder of the boy, who still clung to his knees, as if fascinated
there by speechless terror, and gazed alternately on him and the
countess with eyes glazed almost in madness, "up, up; this is no place
for thee. What can they do with me but slay--let them come on--better,
far better than a scaffold!" but the boy moved not, Nigel spoke in vain.
The fate he dared seemed indeed threatening. Wrought well-nigh to
phrensy at this daring insult to his sovereign, in whose acts of cruelty
and oppression he could far better sympathize than in his more knightly
qualities, the Earl of Berwick loudly and fiercely called on his
soldiers to advance and cut down the traitor, to bring the heaviest
fetters and bear him to the lowest dungeon. The men, roused from their
stupor of amaze, rushed on impetuously to obey him; their naked swords
already gleamed round Nigel; the Countess of Buchan was torn from his
side, her own especial guards closing darkly around her; but vainly did
they seek to unclasp the convulsive grasp of the boy from Nigel, he
neither shrieked nor spake, but he remained in that one posture, rigid
as stone.
"Fiends! monsters! would ye, dare ye touch a boy, a child as this!"
shouted Nigel, struggling with herculean strength to free himself from
the rude grasp of the soldiers, as he beheld the sharp steel pointed at
the breast of the boy, to compel him to unloose his hold. "Villains,
cowards! bear back and let me speak with him," and nerved to madness by
the violence of his emotions, he suddenly wrenched himself away, the
rapidity of the movement throwing one of the men to the earth, and bent
over the boy; again they rushed forward, they closed upon him, they tore
away the lad by force of numbers, and flung him senseless on the earth;
they sought to bear away their prisoner, but at that moment Hereford,
who had been parleying loudly and wrathfully with Berwick, spurred his
charger in the very midst of them, and compelled them to bear back.
"Back, back!" he exclaimed, making a path for himself with his drawn
sword; "how dare ye thrust yourselves betwixt me and my lawful prisoner,
captive of my sword and power? what right have ye to dare detain him?
Let go your hold, none but the men whose prowess gained this gallant
prize shall guard him till my sovereign's will be known. Back, back, I
say!"
"Traitor!" retorted Berwick, "he is no longer your prisoner. An insult
offered to King Edward, in the loyal citadel of Berwick, in my very
presence, his representative as I stand, shall meet with fit
retribution. He hath insulted his sovereign by act and word, and I
attach him of high treason and will enforce my charge. Forward, I say!"
"And I say back!" shouted the Earl of Hereford; "I tell thee, proud
earl, he is my prisoner, and mine alone. Thou mayest vaunt thy loyalty,
thy representation of majesty, as thou listeth, mine hath been proved at
the good sword's point, and Edward will deem me no traitor because I
protect a captive, who hath surrendered himself a knight to a knight,
rescue or no rescue, from this unseemly violence. I bandy no more words
with such as thee; back! the first man that dares lay hold on him I
chastise with my sword."
"Thou shalt repent this!" muttered Berwick, with a suppressed yet
terrible oath, but he dared proceed no further.
A signal from their leader brought up all Hereford's men, who, in
compact order and perfect silence, surrounded their prisoner. Sternly
the earl called for a pair of handcuffs, and with his own hands fastened
them on his captive. "It grieves me," he said, "to see a brave man thus
manacled, but thine own mad act hath brought it on thyself. And now, my
Lord of Berwick, an it please thee to proceed, we demand admission to
thy citadel in King Edward's name. Bring up the other prisoners."
Concealing his wrath with difficulty, the Earl of Berwick and his
attendants dashed forward over the drawbridge into the castle at full
speed, closing the gates and lowering the portcullis after them. After a
brief space, the portcullis was again raised, the gates flung wide
apart, and the men-at-arms were discerned lining either side, in all due
form and homage to the officers of their sovereign. During the wrathful
words passing between the two earls, the attention of the crowd had been
given alternately to them and to the Countess of Buchan, who had utterly
forgotten her own precarious situation in anxiety for Nigel, and in pity
for the unfortunate child, who had been hurled by the soldiers close to
the spot where she stood.
"Do not leave him there, he will be trampled on," she said, imploringly,
to the officers beside her. "He can do no harm, poor child, Scotch
though he be. A little water, only bring me a little water, and he will
speedily recover."
All she desired was done, the boy was tenderly raised and brought within
the circle of her guards, and laid on the ground at her feet. She knelt
down beside him, chafed his cold hands within her own, and moistened his
lips and brow with water. After a while his scattered senses returned,
he started up in a sitting posture, and gazed in wild inquiry around
him, uttering a few inarticulate words, and then saying aloud, "Sir
Nigel, my lord, my--my--master, where is he? oh! let me go to him; why
am I here?"
"Thou shalt go to him, poor boy, as soon as thy strength returns; an
they have let thee follow him from Scotland, surely they will not part
ye now," said the countess soothingly, and her voice seemed to rouse the
lad into more consciousness. He gazed long in her face, with an
expression which at that time she could not define, but which startled
and affected her, and she put her arm round him and kissed his brow. A
convulsive almost agonized sob broke from the boy's breast, and caused
his slight frame to shake as with an ague, then suddenly he knelt before
her, and, in accents barely articulate, murmured--
"Bless me, oh bless me!" while another word seemed struggling for
utterance, but checked with an effort which caused it to die on his lips
in indistinct murmurs.
"Bless thee, poor child! from my very heart I do, if the blessing of one
sorrowing and afflicted as myself can in aught avail thee. For thy
faithfulness to thy master, I bless thee, for it speaketh well for thee,
and that face would bid me love and bless thee for thyself, I know not
wherefore. Good angels keep and bless thee, gentle boy, thou hast
Isabella's prayers, and may they give thee peace."
"Pray for me, aye, pray for me," repeated the boy, in the same murmured
tones. He clasped her hands in both his, he pressed them again and again
to his lips, repeated sobs burst from his laboring breast, and then he
sprung up, darted away, and stood at Sir Nigel's side, just as the Earl
of Hereford had commanded his men to wheel a little to the right, to
permit the Countess of Buchan, her guards and officers, free passage
over the drawbridge, and first entrance within the fortress.
The brow of this noble son of chivalry darkened as, sitting motionless
on his tall steed, his gaze rested on the noble woman whom it had
originally been his painful charge to deliver over to his sovereign. He
had not dreamed of a vengeance such as this. He could not have believed
a change so dark as this had fallen on the character of a sovereign whom
he still loved, still sought to admire and revere, and his spirit sunk
'neath the sorrow this conviction caused. Almost involuntarily, as the
procession slowly proceeded, and the countess passed within three paces
of his horse's head, he bent his lordly brow in silent homage; she saw
it and returned it, more effected by the unfeigned commiseration on that
warrior's face, than at aught which had occurred to shame and humble her
that morning.
A brief pause took place in the movements of the officers and their
prisoners, when they reached the great hall of the castle. For a brief
minute Lady Seaton and the Countess of Buchan had met, had clasped
hands, in sad, yet eager greeting. "My child, mine Agnes?" had been by
the latter hurriedly whispered, and the answer, "Safe, I trust, safe,"
just permitted to reach her ear, when roughly and fiercely the Earl of
Berwick summoned the Lady of Buchan to proceed to the chamber appointed
for her use. Those simple words had, however, removed a load of anxiety
from her mind, for they appeared to confirm what she had sometimes
permitted herself to hope, that Agnes had shared King Robert's exile,
under the care of Lady Campbell; prevailed on to do so, perchance, by
the entreaties of Nigel, who in all probability had deemed that course,
though one of hardship, less perilous than remaining with him. She hoped
indeed against her better judgment, for though she knew not the depth,
the might of her daughter's feelings, she knew it must have been a
terrible trial so to part, and she absolutely shuddered when she thought
of the whelming blow it would be to that young heart when the fate of
her betrothed was ascertained.
Lady Seaton had spoken as she believed. No communication had been
permitted between the prisoners on their way to England; indeed, from
Sir Christopher's wounded and exhausted state, he had travelled more
leisurely in a litter, always in the rear of the earl's detachment, and
occupied by her close attendance upon him, his wife had scarcely been
aware of the young page ever in attendance on her brother, or deemed
him, if she did observe him, a retainer of Hereford's own. There was so
much of fearful peril and misery hovering over her in her husband's
fate, that it was not much wonder her thoughts lingered there more than
on Agnes, and that she was contented to believe as she had spoken, that
she at least was safe.
Night fell on the town of Berwick. Silence and darkness had come on her
brooding wings; the varied excitement of the day was now but a matter of
wondering commune round the many blazing hearths, where the busy crowds
of the morning had now gathered. Night came, with her closing pall, her
softened memories, her sleeping visions, and sad waking dreams. She had
come, alike to the mourned and mourner, the conqueror and his captive,
the happy and the wretched. She had found the Earl of Berwick pacing up
and down his stately chamber, his curtained couch unsought, devising
schemes to lower the haughty pride of the gallant warrior whom he yet
feared. She had looked softly within the room where that warrior lay,
and found him, too, sleepless, but not from the same dark dreams. He
grieved for his sovereign, for the fate of one noble spirit shrined in a
woman's form, and restless and fevered, turned again and again within
his mind how he might save from a yet darker doom the gallant youth his
arms had conquered. And not alone on them did night look down. She sent
her sweet, reviving influence, on the rays of a bright liquid star,
through the narrow casement which gave light to the rude unfurnished
chamber where Sir Nigel Bruce and his attendant lay. They had not torn
that poor faithful child from his side. Hereford's last commands had
been that they should not part them, and there they now lay; and sleep,
balmy sleep had for them descended on the wings of night, hovering over
that humble pallet of straw, when from the curtained couch of power, the
downy bed of luxury, she fled. There they lay; but it was the boy who
lay on the pallet of straw, his head pillowed by the arm of the knight,
who sat on a wooden settle at his side. He had watched for a brief space
those troubled slumbers, but as they grew calmer and calmer, he had
pressed one light kiss on the soft yielding cheek, and then leant his
head on his breast, and he too slept--even in sleep tending one beloved.
And in the dark, close sleeping-chamber within the prison cage of the
noble Countess of Buchan, night too looked pityingly. Sleep indeed was
not there; it had come and gone, for in a troubled slumber a dream had
come of Agnes, and she had woke to think upon her child, and pray for
her; and as she prayed, she thought of her promise to the poor boy who
had so strangely moved her. She could not trace how one thought had
sprung from the other, nor why in the darkness his features so suddenly
flashed before her; but so it was. His face seemed to gleam upon her
with the same strange, indefinable expression which, even at the time,
had startled her; and then a sudden flash appeared to illumine that
darkness of bewilderment. She started up from her reclining posture; she
pressed both hands on her throbbing eyeballs; a wild, sickening yearning
took possession of her whole soul; and then she felt, in its full
bitterness, she was a chained and guarded prisoner and the deep anguish
of her spirit found vent in the convulsive cry--
"Fool, fool that I was--my child! my child!"