The Days of Bruce | Page 7

forth
with thy blessing on my path, and ill and woe can come not near me.
Speak to thy son!" The undaunted boy flung himself on his knee before
the countess as he spoke. There was a dark and fearfully troubled
expression on her noble features. She had clasped her hands together,
as if to still or hide their unwonted trembling; but when she looked on
those bright and glowing features, there came a dark, dread vision of
blood, and the axe and cord, and she folded her arms around his neck,
and sobbed in all a mother's irrepressible agony.
"My own, my beautiful, to what have I doomed thee!" she cried. "To
death, to woe! aye, perchance, to that heaviest woe--a father's curse!
exposing thee to death, to the ills of all who dare to strike for freedom.
Alan, Alan, how can I bid thee forth to death? and yet it is I have taught
thee to love it better than the safety of a slave; longed, prayed for this
moment--deemed that for my country I could even give my child--and
now, now--oh God of mercy, give me strength!"
She bent down her head on his, clasping him to her heart, as thus to still
the tempest which had whelmed it. There is something terrible in that
strong emotion which sometimes suddenly and unexpectedly
overpowers the calmest and most controlled natures. It speaks of an
agony so measureless, so beyond the relief of sympathy, that it falls
like an electric spell on the hearts of all witnesses, sweeping all minor
passions into dust before it. Little accustomed as was Sir Robert Keith

to sympathize in such emotions, he now turned hastily aside, and, as if
fearing to trust himself in silence, commenced a hurried detail to Nigel
Bruce of the Earl of Carrick's escape from London, and his present
position. The young nobleman endeavored to confine his attention to
the subject, but his eyes would wander in the direction of Agnes, who,
terrified at emotions which in her mother she had never witnessed
before, was kneeling in tears beside her brother.
A strong convulsive shuddering passed over the bowed frame of
Isabella of Buchan; then she lifted up her head, and all traces of
emotion had passed from her features. Silently she pressed her lips on
the fair brows of her children alternately, and her voice faltered not as
she bade them rise and heed her not.
"We will speak further of this anon, Sir Robert," she said, so calmly
that the knight started. "Hurried and important as I deem your mission,
the day is too far spent to permit of your departure until the morrow;
you will honor our evening meal, and this true Scottish tower for a
night's lodging, and then we can have leisure for discourse on the
weighty matters you have touched upon."
She bowed courteously, as she turned with a slow, unfaltering step to
leave the room. Her resumed dignity recalled the bewildered senses of
her son, and, with graceful courtesy, he invited the knight to follow him,
and choose his lodging for the night.
"Agnes, mine own Agnes, now, indeed, may I win thee," whispered
Nigel, as tenderly he folded his arm round her, and looked fondly in her
face. "Scotland shall be free! her tyrants banished by her patriot king;
and then, then may not Nigel Bruce look to this little hand as his
reward? Shall not, may not the thought of thy pure, gentle love be mine,
in the tented field and battle's roar, urging me on, even should all other
voice be hushed?"
"Forgettest thou I am a Comyn, Nigel? That the dark stain of traitor, of
disloyalty is withering on our line, and wider and wider grows the
barrier between us and the Bruce?" The voice of the maiden was
choked, her bright eyes dim with tears.

"All, all I do forget, save that thou art mine own sweet love; and though
thy name is Comyn, thy heart is all Macduff. Weep not, my Agnes;
thine eyes were never framed for tears. Bright times for us and Scotland
are yet in store!"
CHAPTER II.
For the better comprehension of the events related in the preceding
chapter, it will be necessary to cast a summary glance on matters of
historical and domestic import no way irrelevant to our subject, save
and except their having taken place some few years previous to the
commencement of our tale.
The early years of Isabella of Buchan had been passed in happiness.
The only daughter, indeed for seven years the only child, of Malcolm,
Earl of Fife, deprived of her mother on the birth of her brother, her
youth had been nursed in a tenderness and care uncommon in those
rude ages; and yet, from being