“Bless me, oh bless me!” while another word seemed struggling for utterance, but checked with an effort which caused it to die on his lips in indistinct murmurs.

“Bless thee, poor child! from my very heart I do, if the blessing of one sorrowing and afflicted as myself can in aught avail thee.  For thy faithfulness to thy master, I bless thee, for it speaketh well for thee, and that face would bid me love and bless thee for thyself, I know not wherefore.  Good angels keep and bless thee, gentle boy, thou hast Isabella’s prayers, and may they give thee peace.”

“Pray for me, aye, pray for me,” repeated the boy, in the same murmured tones.  He clasped her hands in both his, he pressed them again and again to his lips, repeated sobs burst from his laboring breast, and then he sprung up, darted away, and stood at Sir Nigel’s side, just as the Earl of Hereford had commanded his men to wheel a little to the right, to permit the Countess of Buchan, her guards and officers, free passage over the drawbridge, and first entrance within the fortress.

The brow of this noble son of chivalry darkened as, sitting motionless on his tall steed, his gaze rested on the noble woman whom it had originally been his painful charge to deliver over to his sovereign.  He had not dreamed of a vengeance such as this.  He could not have believed a change so dark as this had fallen on the character of a sovereign whom he still loved, still sought to admire and revere, and his spirit sunk ’neath the sorrow this conviction caused.  Almost involuntarily, as the procession slowly proceeded, and the countess passed within three paces of his horse’s head, he bent his lordly brow in silent homage; she saw it and returned it, more effected by the unfeigned commiseration on that warrior’s face, than at aught which had occurred to shame and humble her that morning.

A brief pause took place in the movements of the officers and their prisoners, when they reached the great hall of the castle.  For a brief minute Lady Seaton and the Countess of Buchan had met, had clasped hands, in sad, yet eager greeting.  “My child, mine Agnes?” had been by the latter hurriedly whispered, and the answer, “Safe, I trust, safe,” just permitted to reach her ear, when roughly and fiercely the Earl of Berwick summoned the Lady of Buchan to proceed to the chamber appointed for her use.  Those simple words had, however, removed a load of anxiety from her mind, for they appeared to confirm what she had sometimes permitted herself to hope, that Agnes had shared King Robert’s exile, under the care of Lady Campbell; prevailed on to do so, perchance, by the entreaties of Nigel, who in all probability had deemed that course, though one of hardship, less perilous than remaining with him.  She hoped indeed against her better judgment, for though she knew not the depth, the might of her daughter’s feelings, she knew it must have been a terrible trial so to part, and she absolutely shuddered when she thought of the whelming blow it would be to that young heart when the fate of her betrothed was ascertained.