Still did the Countess of Buchan cling to the massive arm of the chair which Margaret had left, utterly powerless, wholly incapacitated from asking the question on which her very life seemed to depend.  Not even the insensibility of her Agnes had had the power to rouse her from the stupor of anxiety which had spread over her, sharpening every faculty and feeling indeed, but rooting her to the spot.  Her boy, her Alan, he was not amongst those warriors; she heard not the beloved accents of his voice; she saw not his boyish form—­darkness could not deceive her.  Disguise would not prevent him, were he amongst his companions, from seeking her embrace.  One word would end that anguish, would speak the worst, end it—­had he fallen!

The king looked round the group anxiously and inquiringly.

“The Countess of Buchan?” he said; “where is our noble friend? she surely hath a voice to welcome her king, even though he return to her defeated.”

“Sire, I am here,” she said, but with difficulty; and Robert, as if he understood it, could read all she was enduring, hastened towards her, and took both her cold hands in his.

“I give thee joy,” he said, in accents that reassured her on the instant.  “Nobly, gallantly, hath thy patriot boy proved himself thy son; well and faithfully hath he won his spurs, and raised the honor of his mother’s olden line.  He bade me greet thee with all loving duty, and say he did but regret his wounds that they prevented his attending me, and throwing himself at his mother’s feet.”

“He is wounded, then, my liege?” Robert felt her hands tremble in his hold.

“It were cruel to deceive thee, lady—­desperately but not dangerously wounded.  On the honor of a true knight, there is naught to alarm, though something, perchance, to regret; for he pines and grieves that it may be yet a while ere he recover sufficient strength to don his armor.  It is not loss of blood, but far more exhaustion, from the superhuman exertions that he made.  Edward and Alexander are with him; the one a faithful guard, in himself a host, the other no unskilful leech:  trust me, noble lady, there is naught to fear.”

He spoke, evidently to give her time to recover the sudden revulsion of feeling which his penetrating eye discovered had nearly overpowered her, and he succeeded; ere he ceased, that quivering of frame and lip had passed, and Isabella of Buchan again stood calm and firm, enabled to inquire all particulars of her child, and then join in the council held as to the best plan to be adopted with regard to the safety of the queen and her companions.