dreams and visions she had long looked upon as dead; it did but picture brightly, beautifully, joyously what might have been, and disturbed the tranquil sadness which was usual to her now; disturb it as with phantasmagoria dancing on the brain, yet it was a struggle hard and fierce to banish them again.  As one sweet fancy sunk another rose, even as gleams of moonlight on the waves which rise and fall with every breeze.  Fancy and reason strove for dominion, but the latter conquered.  What could be now the past, save as a vision of the night; the present, a stern reality with all its duties—­duties not alone to others, but to herself.  These were the things on which her thoughts must dwell; these must banish all which might have been and they did; and Isabella of Buchan came through that fiery ordeal unscathed, uninjured in her self-esteem, conscious that not in one thought did she wrong her husband, in not one dream did she wrong the gentle heart of the queen which so clung to her; in not the wildest flight of fancy did she look on Robert as aught save as the deliverer of his country, the king of all true Scottish men.

She rose up from that weakness of suffering, strengthened in her resolve to use every energy in the queen’s service in supporting, encouraging, endeavoring so to work on her appreciation of her husband’s character, as to render her yet more worthy of his love.  She had ever sought to remain beside the queen, ever contrived they should be of the same party; that her mind was ever on the stretch, on the excitement, could not be denied, but she knew not how great its extent till the call for exertion was comparatively over, and she found herself, she scarcely understood how, the only female companion of her sovereign, the situation she had most dreaded, most determined to avoid.  While engaged in the performance of her arduous task, the schooling her own heart and devoting herself to Robert’s wife, virtue seemed to have had its own reward, for a new spirit had entwined her whole being—­excitement, internal as it was, had given a glow to thought and action; but in her present solitude the reaction of spirit fell upon her as a dull, sluggish weight of lead.  She had suffered, too, from both privation and fatigue, and she was aware her strength was failing, and this perhaps was another cause of her depression; but be that as it may, darkness closed round her unobserved, and when startled by some sudden sound, she raised her head from her hands, she could scarcely discern one object from another in the density of gloom.  “Surely night has come suddenly upon us,” she said, half aloud; “it is strange they have not yet returned,” and rising, she was about seeking the tent prepared for her, when a rude grasp was laid on her arm, and a harsh, unknown voice uttered, in suppressed accents—­

“Not so fast, fair mistress, not so fast!  My way does not lie in that direction, and, with your leave, my way is yours.”

“How, man! fellow, detain me at your peril!” answered the countess, sternly, permitting no trace of terror to falter in her voice, although a drawn sword gleamed by her side, and a gigantic form fully armed had grasped her arm.  “Unhand me, or I will summon those that will force thee.  I am not alone, and bethink thee, insult to me will pass not with impunity.”