“It is ill done, your lordship; it is the fiend, the arch-fiend that has planned it all,” loudly exclaimed the man.  “She has been heard to mutter threats of vengeance, and blood and fire against thee, and all belonging to thee.  Let her not go free, my lord; thou mayest repent it still.”

“Repent giving a woman life?—­bah!  Thou art a fool, though a faithful one,” answered Sir Nigel; but even he started as he recognized the features of Jean Roy.  She gave him no time to restrain her, however; for, sliding from his hold, she bounded several paces from him, singing, as she did so, “Repent, ye shall repent!  Where is thy buxom bride?  Jean Roy will see to her safety.  A bonny courtship ye shall have!” Tossing up her arms wildly, she vanished as she spoke; seeming in that light in very truth more like a fiend than woman.  A chill sunk on the heart of Nigel, but, “No, no,” he said, internally, as again he sought the spot where confusion and horror waxed thickest; “Dermid will care for Agnes, and guard her.  I will not think of that mad woman’s words.”  Yet even as he rushed onwards, giving directions, commands, lending his aid to every effort made for extinguishing the fire, a prayer for his wife was uttered in his heart.

The fire continued its rapid progress, buttress after buttress, tower after tower caught on the walls, causing the conflagration to continue, even when, by the most strenuous efforts, it had been partially extinguished amongst the dwellings of the court.  The wind blowing from the north fortunately preserved the keep, inner wall, and even the church, uninjured, save that the scorched and blackened sides of the latter gave evidence of the close vicinity of the flames, and how narrowly it had escaped.  With saddened hearts, the noble defenders of Scotland’s last remaining bulwark, beheld their impregnable wall, the scene of such dauntless valor, such unconquered struggles, against which the whole force of their mighty foes had been of no avail—­that wall crumbling into dust and ashes in their very sight, opening a broad passage to the English foe.  Yet still there was no evidence that to yield were preferable than to die; still, though well-nigh exhausted with their herculean efforts to quench the flames, there was no cessation, no pause, although the very height of the wall prevented success, for they had not the facilities afforded by the engines of the present day.  Sir Nigel, his knights, nay, the venerable abbot himself, seconded every effort of the men.  It seemed as if little more could add to the horror of the scene, and yet the shouts of “The granaries, the granaries—­merciful heaven, all is consumed!” came with such appalling consciousness on every ear, that for a brief while, the stoutest arm hung powerless, the firmest spirit quailed.  Famine stood suddenly before them as a gaunt, terrific spectre, whose cold hand it seemed had grasped their very hearts.  Nobles and men, knights and soldiers, alike stood