“Alan, by the love thou bearest me, I charge thee put up thy sword—­it is thy father!” exclaimed, the countess, commandingly, and speaking the last word in a tone that thrilled to the boy’s heart.  He checked himself in his full career; he snapped his drawn sword in twain, he cast it passionately from him, and uttering, convulsively, “Oh God, oh God, my father!” flung himself in agony on the ground.  With arms folded and the smile of a demon on his lip the earl had awaited his attack, but there was disappointment within, for his foul charge had failed in its intended effect.  Prouder, colder, more commandingly erect had become the mein of the countess as he spoke, till she even appeared to increase in stature; her flashing eyes had never moved from his face, till his fell beneath them; her lip had curled, his cheek had flushed:  powerful indeed became the contrast between the accused and the accuser.

“Arise, my son,” she said, “arise and look upon thy mother; her brow even as her heart is unstained with shame; she fears not to meet the glance of her child.  Look up, my boy; I speak these words to thee, not to that bold, bad man, who hath dared unite the name of a daughter of Fife with shame.  He hath no word either of exculpation, denial, or assent from me.  But to thee, my child, my young, my innocent child, thee, whose ear, when removed from me, they may strive to poison with false tales, woven with such skill that hadst thou not thy mother’s word, should win thee to belief—­to thee I say, look on me, Alan—­is this a brow of guilt?”

“No, no, no, I will not look on thee, my mother!  I need not to gaze on thee to know the horrid falsity of the charge,” answered Alan, flinging his arms passionately around his mother.  “Did I never see thee more, never list that voice again, and did all the fiends of hell come around me with their lies, I would not hear, much less believe such charge.  No, no! oh God, ’tis my father, speaks it!  Father—­and my hand is powerless to avenge.”

“I need not vengeance, my beloved; grieve not, weep not that thy hand is chained, and may not defend thy mother’s stainless name; I need it not.  My heart is known unto my God, my innocence to thee; his blessing rest with thee, my beautiful, and give thee strength for all thou mayest endure.”

She bent down to kiss his brow, which was damp with the dew of intense anguish.  He started up, he gave one long look on her calm and noble face, and then he flung himself in her arms, and sobbed like a child on her bosom.  It was a fearful moment for that woman heart; had she been alone with her child, both nerve and spirit must have given way, but fortunately, perhaps, for the preservation of her fortitude, the Earl of Buchan was still the witness of that scene, triumphing in the sufferings he had caused.  The countess did indeed fold her boy convulsively to her breast, but she did not bend her head on his, as Nature prompted; it was still erect; her mien majestic still, and but a slight quivering in her beautiful lip betrayed emotion.