“Nigel, by all that’s marvellous, and as moon-stricken as his wont!  Why, where the foul fiend hast thou sprung from?  Art dumb, thou foolish boy?  By St. Andrew, these are times to act and speak, not think and feel!  Whence comest thou?”

So spoke the impatient Edward, to whom the character of his youngest brother had ever been a riddle, which it had been too much trouble to expound, and that which it seemed to his too careless thought he ever looked upon with scorn and contempt.  Not so, King Robert; he raised him affectionately in his arms, and pressed him to his heart.

“Thou’rt welcome, most, most welcome, Nigel; as welcome as unlooked for.  But why this quick return from scenes and studies more congenial to thy gentle nature, my young brother? this fettered land is scarce a home for thee; thy free, thy fond imaginings can scarce have resting here.”  He spoke sadly, and his smile unwittingly was sorrowful.

“And thinkest thou, Robert—­nay, forgive me, good my liege—­thinkest thou, because I loved the poet’s dream, because I turned, in sad and lonely musing, from King Edward’s court, I loved the cloister better than the camp?  Oh, do me not such wrong! thou knowest not the guidings of my heart; nor needs it now, my sword shall better plead my cause than can my tongue.”  He turned away deeply and evidently pained, and a half laugh from Sir Edward prevented the king’s reply.

“Well crowed, my pretty fledgling,” he said, half jesting, half in scorn.  “But knowest thou, to fight in very earnest is something different than to read and chant it in a minstrel’s lay?  Better hie thee back to Florence, boy; the mail suit and crested helm are not for such as thee—­better shun them now, than after they are donned.”

“How! darest thou, Edward?  Edward, tempt me not too far,” exclaimed Nigel, his cheek flushing, and springing towards him, his hand upon his half-drawn sword.  “By heaven, wert thou not my mother’s son, I would compel thee to retract these words, injurious, unjust!  How darest thou judge me coward, till my cowardice is proved?  Thy blood is not more red than mine.”

“Peace, peace! what meaneth this unseemly broil?” said Robert, hastily advancing between them, for the dark features of Edward were lowering in wrath, and Nigel was excited to unwonted fierceness.  “Edward, begone! and as thou saidst, see to Sir Robert Keith—­what news he brings.  Nigel, on thy love, thy allegiance so lately proffered, if I read thy greeting right, I pray thee heed not his taunting words.  I do not doubt thee; ’twas for thy happiness, not for thy gallantry, I trembled.  Look not thus dejected;” he held out his hand, which his brother knelt to salute.  “Nay, nay, thou foolish boy, forget my new dignity a while, and now that rude brawler has departed, tell me in sober wisdom, how camest thou here?  How didst thou know I might have need of thee?” A quick blush suffused the cheek of the young man; he hesitated, evidently confused.  “Why, what ails thee, boy?  By St. Andrew, Nigel, I do believe thou hast never quitted Scotland.”