who, for some frivolous reason, he left with the court.  It was a strange thing for him to do, men said, as he had never before been known to lose sight of his boy even for a day.  For some days all seemed peace and hospitality within the tower.  The stranger was too noble himself, and too kindly disposed towards all his fellow-creatures, to suspect aught of treachery, or he might have remarked the retainers of the baron were changed; that ruder forms and darker visages than at first were gathering around him.  How the baron might have intended to make use of them—­almost all robbers and murderers by trade—­cannot be known, though it may be suspected.  In this room the last interview between them took place, and here, on this silent witness of the deed, the hand of the father was bathed in the blood of the son!”

“God in heaven!” burst from Nigel’s parched lips, as he sprang up.  “The son—­how could that be? how known?”

“Fearfully, most fearfully!” shudderingly answered the old man; “through the dying ravings of the maniac Lord of Brus himself.  Had not heaven, in its all-seeing justice, thus revealed it, the crime would ever have remained concealed.  His bandit hirelings were at hand to remove and bury, many fathoms deep in moat and earth, all traces of the deed.  One of the unfortunate knight’s followers was supposed to have shared the fate of his master, and to the other, who escaped almost miraculously, you owe the preservation of your royal line.

“But there was one witness of the deed neither time nor the most cunning art could efface.  The blood lay in a pool on the oaken floor, and the voice of tradition whispers that day after day it was supernaturally renewed; that vain were the efforts to absorb it, it ever seemed moist and red; and that to remove the plank and re-floor the apartment was attempted again and again in vain.  However this may be, it is evident that erasing it was attended with extreme difficulty; that the blood had penetrated well-nigh through the immense thickness of the wood.”

Nigel stooped down over the crumbling fragment; years, aye, centuries had rolled away, yet there it still stood, arrested it seemed even in its decay, not permitted to crumble into dust, but to remain an everlasting monument of crime and its retribution.  After a brief pause Nigel resumed his seat, and pushing the hair from his brow, which was damp with some untold emotion, signed to the old man to proceed.

“That the stranger warrior returned not to Malcolm’s court, and had failed in his promises to various friends, was a matter of disappointment, and for a time, of conjecture to the king and his court.  That his followers, in obedience, it was said, to their master’s signet, set off instantly to join him either in England or Normandy, for both of which places they had received directions, satisfied the greater number.  If others suspected foul play, it was speedily hushed up; for the baron was too powerful, too closely related