of his soul—­its gratification of revenge.  His expansive brow was now contracted and stern, rendered more so perhaps by the lack of hair about the temples; he wore a black velvet cap, circled coronet-wise with large diamonds from which a white feather drooped to his shoulder.  There was a slight, scarcely visible, sneer resting on his features that morning, called forth perhaps by his internal scorn of the noble with whom he had deigned a secret conference; but the Earl of Buchan had done him good service, had ably forwarded his revenge, and he would not therefore listen to that still voice of scorn.

“Soh! she is secure, and your desires on that head accomplished, sir earl,” he said, in continuance of some subject they had been discussing.  “Thou hast done us good service, and by mine honor, it would seem we have done your lordship the same.”

“Aye,” muttered the earl, whose dark features had not grown a whit more amiable since we last beheld him; “aye, we are both avenged.”

“How, sir I darest thou place thyself on a par with me?” angrily retorted Edward; “thinkest thou the sovereign of England can have aught in common with such as thee?  Isabella of Buchan, or of Fife, an thou likest that better, is debased, imprisoned, because she hath dared insult our person, defy our authority, to act treasonably and mischievously, and sow dissension and rebellion amid our Scottish subjects—­for this she is chastised; an it gratify your matrimonial revenge, I am glad on’t; but Edward of England brooks no equality with Comyn of Buchan, though it be but equality in revenge.”

Buchan bent his knee, and humbly apologized.

“Well, well, let it be; thou hast served us too faithfully to be quarrelled with, for perchance unintentional irreverence.  The imposition of her child’s murder, when he lives and is well, is the coinage of thine own brain, sir earl, and thou must reconcile it to thine own conscience.  We hold ourselves exempt from all such peculiar mercy, for we scarce see its wisdom.”  There was a slight bitterness in Edward’s tone.

“Wisdom, my sovereign liege, deemest thou there is no wisdom in revenge?” and the brow of the earl grew dark with passion, as he spoke.  “Have I naught to punish, naught to avenge in this foul traitress—­naught, that her black treachery has extended to my son, my heir, even to his tender years?  I would not have her death; no, let her live and feed on the belief that her example, her counsels have killed her own child; that had it not been for her, he might have lived, been prosperous, aye, and happy now.  Is there no wisdom in such revenge? and if there be none, save that which my own heart feels, I could give your grace another and a better reason for this proceeding.”

“Speak it, in St. George’s name,” replied the king; “of a truth thou art of most clear conception in all schemes of vengeance.  I might have thought long enough, ere I could have lighted on such as this.  What more?”