“And if I have not, my lord, what wilt thou deem me?”

“A very strangely wayward boy, not knowing his own mind,” replied the king, smiling.  “Yet why should I say so?  I never asked thy confidence, never sought it, or in any way returned or appreciated thy boyish love, and why should I deem thee wayward, never inquiring into thy projects—­passing thee by, perchance, as a wild visionary, much happier than myself?”

“And thou wilt think me yet more a visionary, I fear me, Robert; yet thine interest is too dear to pass unanswered,” rejoined Nigel, after glancing round and perceiving they were alone, for the abbot had departed with Sir Edward, seeking to tame his reckless spirit.

“Know, then, to aid me in keeping aloof from the tyrant of my country, whom instinctively I hated, I confined myself to books and such lore yet more than my natural inclination prompted, though that was strong enough—­I had made a solemn vow, rather to take the monk’s cowl and frock, than receive knighthood from the hand of Edward of England, or raise my sword at his bidding.  My whole soul yearned towards the country of my fathers, that country which was theirs by royal right; and when the renown of Wallace reached my ears, when, in my waking and sleeping dreams, I beheld the patriot struggling for freedom, peace, the only one whose arm had struck for Scotland, whose tongue had dared to speak resistance, I longed wildly, intensely, vainly, to burst the thraldom which held my race, and seek for death beneath the patriot banner.  I longed, yet dared not.  My own death were welcome; but mother, father, brothers, sisters, all were perilled, had I done so.  I stood, I deemed, alone in my enthusiast dreams; those I loved best, acknowledged, bowed before the man my very spirit loathed; and how dared I, a boy, a child, stand forth arraigning and condemning?  But wherefore art thou thus, Robert? oh, what has thus moved thee?”

Wrapped in his own earnest words and thoughts, Nigel had failed until that moment to perceive the effect of his words upon his brother.  Robert’s head had sunk upon his hand, and his whole frame shook beneath some strong emotion; evidently striving to subdue it, some moments elapsed ere he could reply, and then only in accents of bitter self-reproach.  “Why, why did not such thoughts come to me, instead of thee?” he said.  “My youth had not wasted then in idle folly—­worse, oh, worse—­in slavish homage, coward indecision, flitting like the moth around the destructive flame; and while I deemed thee buried in romantic dreams, all a patriot’s blood was rushing in thy veins, while mine was dull and stagnant.”