“Midnight murder, thou boasting fool; I love thee not well enough to cheat the hangman of his prey,” replied a harsh and grating voice, which, even without the removal of the cloak, would have revealed to Nigel’s astonished ears the Earl of Buchan.  “Ha!  I have startled thee—­thou didst not know the deadly enemy of thy accursed race!”

“I know thee now, my Lord of Buchan,” replied the young man, calmly; “yet know I not wherefore thou art here, save to triumph over the fallen fortunes of thy foe; if so, scorn on—­I care not.  A few brief hours, and all of earth and earthly feeling is at rest.”

“To triumph—­scorn!  I had scarce travelled for petty satisfaction such as that, when to-morrow sees thee in the hangman’s hands, the scorn of thousands!  Hath Buchan no other work with thee, thinkest thou? dost thou affirm thou knowest naught for which he hath good cause to seek thee?”

“Earl of Buchan, I dare affirm it,” answered Nigel, proudly; “I know of naught to call for words or tones as these, save, perchance, that the love and deep respect in which I hold thine injured countess, my friendship for thy murdered son, hath widened yet more the breach between thy house and mine—­it may be so; yet deem not, cruel as thou art, I will deny feelings in which I glory, at thy bidding.  An thou comest to reproach me with these things, rail on, they affect me as little as thy scorn.”

“Hadst thou said love for her they call my daughter, thou hadst been nearer the mark,” retorted the earl, fury rapidly gaining possession of heart and voice; “but thou art too wise, too politic for that.”

“Aye,” retorted Nigel, after a fearful struggle with himself, “aye, thou mayest well add love for Agnes of Buchan, as well as friendship for her brother.  Thinkest thou I would deny it—­hide it? little dost thou know its thrilling, its inspiring power; little canst thou know how I glory in it, cherish, linger on it still.  But wherefore speak thus to thee, thou man of wickedness and blood.  I love thy pure and spotless child, rejoice that thou didst so desert, so utterly neglect her, that thou couldst no more leave a shadow on her innocent heart than a cloud upon her way.  I love her, glory in that love, and what is it to thee?”

“What is it to me? that a child of the house of Comyn dare hold commune with a Bruce; that thou hast dared to love a daughter of my house, aye, to retain her by thy side a willing mistress, when all others of her sex forsook thee—­what is it to me?  Did not to-morrow give thee to a traitor’s doom, thy blood should answer thee; but as it is, villain and slave, give her to me—­where is her hiding-place? speak, or the torture shall wring it from thee.”

“Thinkest thou such threats will in aught avail thee?” calmly replied Nigel.  “Thou knowest not the Bruce.  Agnes is no longer a Comyn, no longer a subject to thy guardianship.  The voice of God, the rites at the altar’s foot, have broken every link, save that which binds her to her husband.  She is mine, before God and man is mine—­mine own faithful and lawful wife!”