“It would seem we are under some mistake, young sir,” replied Sir Henry, gazing with unfeigned admiration on the well-knit frame and glowing features of the youthful knight.  “I speak of and demand the surrender of the son and heir of John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, who was represented to me as a child of some ten or thirteen summers; ’tis with him, not with thee, my business treats.”

“And ’tis the son—­I know not how long heir—­of John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, who speaks with thee, sir knight.  It may well be, my very age, my very existence hath been forgotten by my father,” he added, with a fierceness and bitterness little in accordance with his years, “aye, and would have been remembered no more, had not the late events recalled them; yet ’tis even so—­and that thy memory prove not treacherous, there lies my gage.  Foully and falsely hast thou spoken of Isabella of Buchan, and her honor is dear to her son as is his own.  In Methven Park we two shall meet, sir knight, and the child, the puny stripling, who hath of his own nor voice nor will, will not fail thee, be thou sure.”

Proudly, almost sternly, the boy fixed his flashing orbs on the English knight, and without removing his glance, strode to the side of his mother and drew her arm within his own.  There was something in the accent, in the saddened yet resolute expression of his countenance, which forbade all rejoinder, not from Sir Henry alone, but even from his own friends.  Seymour raised the gage, and with a meaning smile secured it in his helmet; then respectfully saluting the group around him, withdrew, attended as desired by the Bruce.

“Heed it not, my boy, my own noble boy!” said the Countess of Buchan, in those low, earnest, musical tones peculiarly her own; for she saw that there was a quivering in the lip, a sudden paleness in the cheek of her son, as he gazed up in her lace, when he thought they stood alone, which denoted internal emotion yet stronger than that which had inspired his previous words.  “Their scorn, their contumely, I heed as little as the mountain rock the hailstones which fall upon its sides, in vain seeking to penetrate or wound.  Nay, I could smile at them in very truth, were it not that compelled as I am to act alone, to throw aside as worthless and rejected those natural ties I had so joyed to wear, my heart seems closed to smiles; but for words as those, or yet harsher scorn, grieve not, my noble boy, they have no power to fret or hurt me.”

“Yet to hear them speak in such tone of thee—­thee, whose high soul and noble courage would shame a score of some who write themselves men!—­thee, who with all a woman’s loving heart, and guileless, unselfish, honorable mind, hath all a warrior’s stern resolve, a patriot’s noble purpose!  Mother, mother, how may thy son brook scorn and falsity, and foul calumny cast upon thee?” and there was a choking suffocation in his throat, filling his eyes perforce with tears; and had it not been that manhood struggled for dominion, he would have flung himself upon his mother’s breast and wept.