thee for its love.  But oh, it may not be!” and his voice so suddenly lost its impassioned fervor, that the breast of Agnes filled with new alarm.  “Dearest, best! thou must not dream of life, of happiness with me.  I may not mock thee with such blessed, but, alas! delusive hopes; my doom hath gone forth, revealed when I knew it not, confirmed by that visioned seer but few short weeks ago.  Agnes, my noble Agnes, wherefore shouldst thou wed with death?  I know that I must die!”

The solemn earnestness of his words chased the still lingering glow from the lips and cheek of the maiden, and a cold shiver passed through her frame, but still she clung to him, and said—­

“It matters not; my maiden love, my maiden troth is pledged to thee—­in life or in death I am thine alone.  I will not leave thee,” she said, firmly and calmly.  “Nigel, if it be indeed as thou sayest, that affliction, and—­and all thou hast spoken, must befall thee, the more need is there for the sustaining and the soothing comfort of a woman’s love.  Fear not for me, weak as I may have seemed, there is yet a spirit in me worthy of thy love.  I will not unman thee for all thou mayest encounter.  No, even if I follow thee to—­to death, it shall be as a Bruce’s wife.  Ask not how I will contrive to abide by thee undiscovered, when, if it must be, the foe is triumphant; it will take time, and we have none to lose.  Thou hast promised to forget all I have urged, all, save my love for thee; then, oh, fear me not, doubt me not, thine Agnes will not fail thee!”

Nigel gazed at her almost with surprise; she was no longer the gentle timid being who but a few minutes since had clung weeping to his bosom as a child.  She was indeed very pale, and on her features was the stillness of marble; but she stood erect and unfaltering in her innocent loveliness, sustained by that mighty spirit which dwelt within.  An emotion of deep reverence took possession of that warrior heart, and unable to resist the impulse, he bent his knee before her.

“Then let it be so,” he said, solemnly, but oh, how fervently.  “I will not torture mine own heart and thine by conjuring thee to fly; and now, here, at thy feet, Agnes, noble, generous being, let me swear solemnly, sacredly swear, that should life be preserved to me longer than I now dream of, should I indeed be spared to lavish on thee all a husband’s love and care, never, never shalt thou have cause to regret this day! to mourn thy faithful love was shown as it hath been—­to weep the hour that, in the midst of danger, and darkness, and woe, hath joined our earthly fates, and made us one.  And now,” he continued, rising and folding her once more in his arms, “wilt thou meet me at the altar ere the truce concludes? ’tis but a brief while, a very brief while, my love; yet if it can be, I know thou wilt not shrink.”

“I will not,” she answered.  “The hour thou namest I will meet thee.  Lady Seaton,” she added, slightly faltering, and the vivid blush rose to her temples, “I would see her, speak with her; yet—­”