“The greater glory for his subjects, lady,” answered the youth.  “The very act of proclaiming himself king removes the chains of Scotland, and flings down her gage.  Fear not, he shall be king ere long in something more than name.”

“And is it thus a Comyn speaks?” said the Lady Campbell.  “Ah, were the idle feuds of petty minds thus laid at rest, bold boy, thy dreams might e’en be truth; but knowest thou, young man—­knowest thou, Isabella, the breach between the Comyn and the Bruce is widened, and, alas! by blood?”

“Aye, lady; but what boots it?  A traitor should have no name, no kin, or those who bear that name should wash away their race’s stain by nobler deeds of loyalty and valor.”

“It would be well did others think with thee,” replied Lady Campbell; “yet I fear me in such sentiments the grandson of the loyal Fife will stand alone.  Isabella, dearest Isabella,” she added, laying her hand on the arm of the countess, and drawing her away from her children, “hast thou done well in this decision? hast thou listened to the calmer voice of prudence as was thy wont? hast thou thought on all the evils thou mayest draw upon thy head, and upon these, so lovely and so dear?”

“Mary, I have thought, weighed, pondered, and yet I am here,” answered the countess, firmly, yet in an accent that still bespoke some inward struggle.  “I know, I feel all, all that thou wouldst urge; that I am exposing my brave boy to death, perchance, by a father’s hand, bringing him hither to swear fealty, to raise his sword for the Bruce, in direct opposition to my husband’s politics, still more to his will; yet, Mary, there are mutual duties between a parent and a child.  My poor boy has ever from his birth been fatherless.  No kindly word, no glowing smile has ever met his infancy, his boyhood.  He scarce can know his father—­the love, the reverence of a son it would have been such joy to teach.  Left to my sole care, could I instil sentiments other than those a father’s lips bestowed on me?  Could I instruct him in aught save love, devotion to his country, to her rights, her king?  I have done this so gradually, my friend, that for the burst of loyalty, of impetuous gallantry, which answered Sir Robert Keith’s appeal, I was well nigh unprepared.  My father, my noble father breathes in my boy; and oh, Mary, better, better far lose him on the battle-field, struggling for Scotland’s freedom, glorying in his fate, rejoicing, blessing me for lessons I have taught, than see him as my husband, as my brother—­alas! alas! that I should live to say it—­cringing as slaves before the footstool of a tyrant and oppressor.  Had he sought it, had he loved—­treated me as a wife, Mary, I would have given my husband all—­all a woman’s duty—­all, save the dictates of my soul, but even this he trampled on, despised, rejected; and shall I, dare I then forget, oppose the precepts of that noble heart, that patriot spirit which breathed into mine the faint reflection of itself?—­offend the dead, the hallowed dead, my father—­the heart that loved me?”