“But to flow forth the brighter, my own brother,” interrupted Nigel, earnestly.  “Oh, I have watched thee, studied thee, even as I loved thee, long; and I have hoped, felt, known that this day would dawn; that thou wouldst rise for Scotland, and she would rise for thee.  Ah, now thou smilest as thyself, and I will to my tale.  The patriot died—­let me not utter how; no Scottish tongue should speak those words, save with the upraised arm and trumpet shout of vengeance!  I could not rest in England then; I could not face the tyrant who dared proclaim and execute as traitor the noblest hero, purest patriot, that ever walked this earth.  But men said I sought the lyric schools, the poet’s haunts in Provence, and I welcomed the delusion; but it was to Scotland that I came, unknown, and silently, to mark if with her Wallace all life and soul had fled.  I saw enough to know that were there but a fitting head, her hardy sons would struggle yet for freedom—­but not yet; that chief art thou, and at the close of the last year I took passage to Denmark, intending to rest there till Scotland called me.”

“And ’tis thence thou comest, Nigel?  Can it be, intelligence of my movements hath reached so far north already?” inquired the king, somewhat surprised at the abruptness of his brother’s pause.

“Not so, my liege.  The vessel which bore me was wrecked off the breakers of Buchan, and cast me back again to the arms of Scotland.  I found hospitality, shelter, kindness; nay more, were this a time and place to speak of happy, trusting love—­” he added, turning away from the Bruce’s penetrating eye, “and week after week passed, and found me still an inmate of the Tower of Buchan.”

“Buchan!” interrupted the king, hastily; “the castle of a Comyn, and thou speakest of love!”

“Of as true, as firm-hearted a Scottish patriot, my liege, as ever lived in the heart of woman—­one that has naught of Comyn about her or her fair children but the name, as speedily thou wilt have proof.  But in good time is my tale come to a close, for hither comes good Sir Robert, and other noble knights, who, by their eager brows, methinks, have matters of graver import for thy grace’s ear.”

They entered as he spoke.  The patriot nobles who, at the first call of their rightful king, had gathered round his person, few in number, yet firm in heart, ready to lay down fame, fortune, life, beside his standard, rather than acknowledge the foreign foe, who, setting aside all principles of knightly honor, knightly faith, sought to claim their country as his own, their persons as his slaves.  Eager was the greeting of each and all to the youthful Nigel, mingled with some surprise.  Their conference with the king was but brief, and as it comprised matters more of speculation than of decided import, we will pass on to a later period of the same evening.

CHAPTER IV.