The great island strength of the Douglases was then in its highest state of perfection as a fortress and of dignity as a residence.  Archibald the Grim, who built the keep, could not have foreseen the wondrous beauty and strength to which Thrieve would attain under his successors.  This night of the wappenshaw the lofty grey walls were hung with gaily coloured tapestries draped from the overhanging gallery of wood which ran round the top of the castle.  From the four corners of the roof flew the banners of four provinces which owned the sway of the mighty house,—­Galloway, Annandale, Lanark, and the Marches,—­while from the centre, on a flagstaff taller than any, flew their standard royal, for so it might be called, the heart and stars of the Douglases’ more than royal house.

While the outer walls thus blazed with colour, the woods around gave back the constant reverberation of cannon, as with hand guns and artillery of weight the garrison greeted the return of the Earl and his guests.  The green castle island from end to end was planted thick with tents and gay with pavilions of many hues and various design, their walls covered with intricate devices, and each flying the colours of its owner, while on poles without dangled shields and harness of various kinds, ready for the younger squires to clean and oil for the use of their masters on the remaining days of the tournament.

Sholto waited at the bridge-head, impatient of the press, and eager to be left alone with his own thoughts, that he might con over and over the words and looks of his heart’s idol, and suck all the sweet pain he could out of her very hardheartedness.  Suddenly tossed backwards like a ball from lip to lip, according to the universal and, indeed, obligatory custom of the time, there reached him the “passing of the word.”  He heard his own name repeated over and over in fifty voices and tones, waxing louder as the “word” neared him.

“Sholto MacKim—­Sholto MacKim, son of Malise, the armourer, wanted to speak with the Earl.  Sholto MacKim.  Sholto—­”

A great nolt of a Moray Highlandman, with a mouth like a gash, shouted it in his very ear.

Surprised and somewhat anxious at heart, Sholto cast over in his mind all the deeds, good and evil, which might procure him the honour of an interview with Earl William Douglas, but could think of nothing except his having involuntarily played the spy at the young lord’s meeting with the lady in the wood.  It was therefore with some natural trepidation that the young man obeyed the summons.

“At any rate,” he meditated with a slight return of complacency, as he butted and shoved his way castle-wards, “he can scarcely mean to have my head.  For he was all day with my father at his elbow, and at the worst I shall have another chance of seeing”—­he did not call the beloved by her Christian name even to himself, so he compromised by adding somewhat lamely—­“her.”