The Days of Bruce | Page 3

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