remembered thou hadst a child—­a son.  Had the duty of a father been performed, perchance I had not now forgotten mine as a son!  As it is, we stand as strangers and as foes.  Against thee in truth I will not raise my sword; but further, we are severed and forever!” He crossed his arms proudly on his bosom, and returned the dark, scowling glance of his father with a flashing eye, and a mien as firm and nobler than his own.

“It is well, young man; I thank you for my freedom,” returned the earl, between his teeth.  “As my son, I might stand between thee and Edward’s wrath; as a stranger and my foe, why, whatever his sentence be—­the axe and block without doubt—­let it work, it will move me little.”

“Heed not his rash words, in mercy, heed them not!” exclaimed the countess, her voice of agony contrasting strangely with its former proud reserve.  “Neglected, forgotten him as thou hast, yet, Lord of Buchan, he is still thy son.  Oh, in mercy, expose him not to the deadly wrath of Edward! thou canst save him, thou canst give him freedom.  It is I—­I who am the attainted traitor, not my child.  Give me up to Edward, and he will heed not, ask not for thy son.  It is I who have offended him and thee, not my child.  Art thou not a Scottish noble, descendant of a house as purely loyal and devoted to their country as mine own—­art thou not indeed this man, and yet hath Edward, the deadly foe of thy race, thy land, thy countrymen, more exalted claims than thine own blood?  No, no, it cannot be! thou wilt relent, thou wilt have mercy; let him be but free, and do with me even what thou wilt!”

“Free! go free!” repeated the earl, with a hoarse laugh, ere Alan could interfere.  “Let him go free, forsooth, when he tells me he is my foe, and will go hence and join my bitterest enemies the moment he is free.  Go free! and who art thou who askest this boon?  Hast thou such claims upon me, that for thy pleasure I should give freedom to thy son?”

“My lord, my lord, ’tis for thine own sake, for his, thy child as well as mine, I do beseech, implore thy mercy? draw not the curse of heaven on thy heart by exposing him to death.  Thou wilt know and feel him as indeed thy child when he lies bleeding before thee, when thine own hand hath forged the death-bolt, and then, then it will be too late; thou wilt yearn for his voice in vain.  Oh! is it not sufficient triumph to have in thy power the wife who hath dared thy authority, who hath joined the patriot band, and so drawn down on her the vengeance of Edward?  The price of a traitor is set upon her head.  My lord, my lord, is not one victim enough—­will not my capture insure thee reward and honor in the court of Edward?  Then do with me what thou wilt—­chains, torture, death; but my child, my brave boy—­oh, if thou hast one spark of mercy in thy heart, let him go!”

“Mother,” hoarsely murmured Alan, as he strove to raise her from her suppliant posture, “mother, this shall not be! look upon that face and know thou pleadest in vain.  I will not accept my freedom at such a price; thy knee, thy supplications unto a heart of stone, for me!  No, no; mother, dear mother, we will die together!”