“Well and wisely hast thou spoken, my son,” said the aged Abbot of Scone, who had attended the criminal’s last moments, and now, with Nigel, sought the keep.  “Thy words have moved those rebellious spirits, have calmed the rising tempest even as oil flung on the troubled waves; thine eloquence was even as an angel voice ’mid muttering fiends.  Yet thou art still sad, still anxious.  My son, this should not be.”

“It must be, father,” answered the young man.  “I have looked beyond that oily surface and see naught save darker storms and fiercer tempests; those spirits need somewhat more than a mere voice.  Father, reproach me not as mistrusting the gracious heaven in whose keeping lie our earthly fates.  I know the battle is not to the strong, ’tis with the united, the faithful, and those men are neither.  My words have stirred them for the moment, as a pebble flung ’mid the troubled waters—­a few brief instants and all trace is passed, we see naught but the blackened wave.  But speak not of these things; my trust is higher than earth, and let man work his will.”

Another week passed, and the fierce struggle continued, alternating success, one day with the besiegers, the next with the besieged.  The scene of action was now principally on the walls—­a fearful field, for there was no retreat—­and often the combatants, entwined in a deadly struggle, fell together into the moat.  Still there were no signs of wavering on either side, still did the massive walls give no sign of yielding to the tremendous and continued discharge of heavy stones, that against battlements less strongly constructed must long ere this have dealt destruction and inevitable mischief to the besieged.  One tower, commanding the causeway across the moat and its adjoining platform on the wall, had indeed been taken by the English, and was to them a decided advantage, but still their further progress even to the next tower was lingering and dubious, and it appeared evident to both parties that, from the utter impossibility of the Scotch obtaining supplies of provision and men, success must finally attend the English; they would succeed more by the effects of famine than by their swords.

It was, as we have said, seven days after the execution of the traitor Roy.  A truce for twelve hours had been concluded with the English, at the request of Sir Nigel Bruce, and safe conduct granted by the Earl of Hereford to those men, women, and children of the adjoining villages who chose even at this hour to leave the castle, but few, a very few took advantage of this permission, and these were mostly the widows and children of those who had fallen in the siege; a fact which caused some surprise, as the officers and men-at-arms imagined it would have been eagerly seized upon by all those contentious spirits who had appeared so desirous of a league with England.  A quiet smile slightly curled the lips of Nigel as this information was reported to him—­a smile