“Buchan! the Countess of Buchan, sayest thou, Athelbert? nay, ’tis scarce possible,” said a fair and noble-looking woman, still in the bloom of life, though early youth had passed, pausing on her way to the queen’s apartment, to answer some information given by the senior page.

“Indeed, madam, ’tis even so; she arrived but now, escorted by Sir Robert Keith and his followers, in addition to some fifty of the retainers of Buchan.”

“And hath she lodging within the palace?”

“Yes, madam; an it please you, I will conduct you to her, ’tis but a step beyond the royal suite.”

She made him a sign of assent, and followed him slowly, as if musingly.

“It is strange, it is very strange,” she thought, “yet scarcely so; she was ever in heart and soul a patriot, nor has she seen enough of her husband to change such sentiments.  Yet, for her own sake, perchance it had been better had she not taken this rash step; ’tis a desperate game we play, and the fewer lives and fortunes wrecked the better.”

Her cogitations were interrupted by hearing her name announced in a loud voice by the page, and finding herself in presence of the object of her thoughts.

“Isabella, dearest Isabella, ’tis even thine own dear self.  I deemed the boy’s tale well-nigh impossible,” was her hasty exclamation, as with a much quicker step she advanced towards the countess, who met her half-way, and warmly returned her embrace, saying as she did so—­

“This is kind, indeed, dearest Mary, to welcome me so soon; ’tis long, long years since we have met; but they have left as faint a shadow on thy affections as on mine.”

“Indeed, thou judgest me truly, Isabella.  Sorrow, methinks, doth but soften the heart and render the memory of young affections, youthful pleasures, the more vivid, the more lasting:  we think of what we have been, or what we are, and the contrast heightens into perfect bliss that which at the time, perchance, we deemed but perishable joy.”

“Hast thou too learnt such lesson, Mary?  I hoped its lore was all unknown to thee.”

“It was, indeed, deferred so long, so blessedly, I dared to picture perfect happiness on earth; but since my husband’s hateful captivity, Isabella, there can be little for his wife but anxiety and dread.  But these—­are these thine?” she added, gazing admiringly and tearfully on Agnes and Alan, who had at their mother’s sign advanced from the embrasure, where they had held low yet earnest converse, and gracefully acknowledged the stranger’s notice.  “Oh, wherefore bring them here, my friend?”

“Wherefore, lady?” readily and impetuously answered Alan; “art thou a friend of Isabella of Buchan, and asketh wherefore?  Where our sovereign is, should not his subjects be?”

“Thy mother’s friend and sovereign’s sister, noble boy, and yet I grieve to see thee here.  The Bruce is but in name a king, uncrowned as yet and unanointed.  His kingdom bounded by the confines of this one fair county, struggling for every acre at the bright sword’s point.”