The Days of Bruce | Page 4

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