The Days of Bruce | Page 5

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,