“I did not, I could not, for he cherished me so fondly till this sudden rising—­this time, when his desperate enterprise demands energy and firmness, even from the humblest female, how much more from the Bruce’s wife! and his manner is not changed towards me, nor his love.  I know he loves me, cherishes me, as he ever did; but he must pity my weakness, my want of nerve; when he compares me to himself, he must look on me with almost contempt.  For now it is, now that clearer than ever his character stands forth in such glorious majesty, such moderation, such a daring yet self-governed spirit, that I feel how utterly unworthy I am of him, how little capable to give that spirit, that mind the reflection it must demand; and when my weak fears prevail, my weak fancies speak only of danger and defeat, how can he bear with me?  Must I not become, if I am not now, a burden?”

“No, dearest Margaret,” replied the countess, instantly.  “The mind that can so well appreciate the virtues of her husband will never permit herself, through weakness and want of nerve, to become a burden to him.  Thou hast but to struggle with these imaginary terrors, to endeavor to encourage, instead of to dispirit, and he will love and cherish thee even more than hadst thou never been unnerved.”

“Let him but be restored to me, and I will do all this.  I will make myself more worthy of his love; but, oh, Isabella, while I speak this, perhaps he is lost to me forever; I may never see his face, never hear that tone of love again!” and a fresh flood of weeping concluded her words.

“Nay, but thou wilt—­I know thou wilt,” answered the countess, cheeringly.  “Trust me, sweet friend, though defeat may attend him a while, though he may pass through trial and suffering ere the goal be gained, Robert Bruce will eventually deliver his country—­will be her king, her savior—­will raise her in the scale of nations, to a level even with the highest, noblest, most deserving.  He is not lost to thee; trial will but prove his worth unto his countrymen even more than would success.”

“And how knowest thou these things, my Isabella?” demanded Margaret, looking up in her face, with a half-playful, half-sorrowful smile.  “Hast thou the gift of prophecy?”

“Prophecy!” repeated the countess, sadly.  “Alas! ’tis but the character of Robert which hath inspired my brighter vision.  Had I the gift of prophecy, my fond heart would not start and quiver thus, when it vainly strives to know the fate of my only son.  I, too, have anxiety, lady, though it find not words.”

“Thou hast, thou hast, indeed; and yet I, weak, selfish as I am, think only of myself.  Stay by me, Isabella; oh, do not leave me, I am stronger by thy side.”

It was growing darker and darker, and the hopes that, ere night fell, new and more trustworthy intelligence of the movements of the fugitives would be received were becoming fainter and fainter on every heart.  Voices were hushed to silence, or spoke only in whispers.  Half an hour passed thus, when the listless suffering on the lovely face of Agnes was observed by Isoline to change to an expression of intense attention.