The Caged Lion

by Charlotte M. Yonge

  CHAPTER I: THE GUEST OF GLENUSKIE

  A master hand has so often described the glens and ravines of Scotland,that it seems vain and presumptuous to meddle with them; and yet we mustask our readers to figure to themselves a sharp cleft sloping downwardsto a brawling mountain stream, the sides scattered with gray rocks ofevery imaginable size, interspersed here and there with heather, gorse,or furze. Just in the widest part of the valley, a sort of platform ofrock jutted out from the hill-side, and afforded a station for one ofthose tall, narrow, grim-looking fastnesses that were the strength ofScotland, as well as her bane.

  Either by nature or art, the rock had been scarped away on three sides,so that the walls of the castle rose sheer from the steep descent, exceptwhere the platform was connected with the mountain side by, as it were,an isthmus joining the peninsula to the main rock; and even this isthmus,a narrow ridge of rock just wide enough for the passage of a singlehorse, had been cut through, no doubt with great labour, and renderedimpassable, except by the lowering of a drawbridge. Glenuskie Castle wasthus nearly impregnable, so long as it was supplied with water, and forthis all possible provision had been made, by guiding a stream into thecourt.

  The castle was necessarily narrow and confined; its massive walls took upmuch even of the narrow space that the rock afforded; but it had been sopiled up that it seemed as though the builders wished to make heightcompensate for straitness. There was, too, an unusual amount of grace,both in the outline of the gateway with its mighty flanking towers, andof the lofty donjon tower, that shot up like a great finger above theMassy More, as the main building was commonly called by the inhabitantsof Glenuskie.

  Wondrous as were the walls, and deep-set as were the arches, they had allthat peculiar slenderness of contour that Scottish taste seemed to havelearnt from France; and a little more space was gained at the top, bothof the gateway towers and the donjon, by a projecting cornice ofbeautifully vaulted arches supporting a battlement, that gave thebuilding a crowned look. On the topmost tower was of course planted theensign of the owner, and that ensign was no other than the regal ruddyLion of Scotland, ramping on his gold field within his tressure fiery andcounter flory, but surmounted by a label divided into twelve, and placedupon a pen-noncel, or triangular piece of silk. The eyes of the earlyfifteenth century easily deciphered such hieroglyphics as these, which toevery one with the least tincture of 'the noble science' indicated thatthe owner of the castle was of royal Stewart blood, but of a youngerbranch, and not yet admitted to the rank of knighthood.

  The early spring of the year 1421 was bleak and dreary in that wildlonely vale, and large was the fire burning on the hearth in the castlehall, in the full warmth of which there sat, with a light blue clothcloak drawn tightly round him, a tall old man, of the giant mould ofScotland, and with a massive thoughtful brow, whose grand form wasrendered visible by the absence of hair, only a few remnants of yellowlocks mixed with silver floating from his temples to mingle with hismagnificent white beard. A small blue bonnet, with a short eaglefeather, fastened with a brooch of river pearl, was held in the handsthat were clasped over his face, as, bending down in his chair, hemurmured through his white beard, 'Have mercy, good Lord, have mercy onthe land. Have mercy on my son,--and guard him when he goes out and whenhe comes in. Have mercy on the children I have toiled for, and teach meto judge and act for them aright in these sore straits; and above all,have mercy on our King, break his fetters, and send him home to be thehealer of his land, the avenger of her cruel wrongs.'

  So absorbed was the old man that he never heard the step that came acrossthe hall. It was a slightly unequal step, but was carefully hushed atentrance, as if supposing the old man asleep; and at a slow pace the new-comer crossed the hall to the chimney, where he stood by the fire,warming himself and looking wistfully at the old Knight.

  He was wrapped in a plaid, black and white, which increased the grayappearance of the pale sallow face and sad expression of the wearer, aboy of about seventeen, with soft pensive dark eyes and a sicklycomplexion, with that peculiar wistful cast of countenance that is apt toaccompany deformity, though there was no actual malformation apparent,unless such might be reckoned the slight halt in the gait, and the smallstature of the lad, who was no taller than many boys of twelve orfourteen. But there was a depth of melancholy in those dark brown eyes,that went far into the heart of any one who had the power to be touchedwith their yearning, appealing, almost piteous gaze, as though theirowner had come into a world that was much too hard for him, and werelooking out in bewilderment and entreaty for some haven of peace.

  He had stood for some minutes looking thoughtfully into the fire, and thesadness of his expression ever deepening, before the old man raised hisface, and said, 'You here, Malcolm? where are the others?'

  'Patie and Lily are still on the turret-top, fair Uncle,' returned theboy. 'It was so cold;' and he shivered again, and seemed as though hewould creep into the fire.

  'And the reek?' asked the uncle.

  'There is another reek broken out farther west,' replied Malcolm. 'Patieis sure now that it is as you deemed, Uncle; that it is a cattle-liftingfrom Badenoch.'

  'Heaven help them!' sighed the old man, again folding his hands inprayer. 'How long, O Lord, how long?'

  Malcolm took up the appeal of the Psalm, repeating it in Latin, but withnone the less fervency; that Psalm that has ever since David's timeserved as the agonized voice of hearts hot-burning at the sight of wrong.

  'Ah yes,' he ended, 'there is nothing else for it! Uncle, this waswherefore I came. It was to speak to you of my purpose.'

  'The old purpose, Malcolm? Nay, that hath been answered before.'

  'But listen, listen, dear Uncle. I have not spoken of it for a full yearnow. So that you cannot say it is the caresses of the good monks. No,nor the rude sayings of the Master of Albany,' he added, colouring at alook of his uncle. 'You bade me say no more till I be of full age; norwould I, save that I were safe lodged in an abbey; then might Patrick andLily be wedded, and he not have to leave us and seek his fortune far awayin France; and in Patie's hands and leading, my vassals might be safe;but what could the doited helpless cripple do?' he added, the colourrising hotly to his cheek with pain and shame. 'Oh, Sir, let me but savemy soul, and find peace in Coldingham!'

  'My poor bairn,' said his uncle, laying a kind hand upon him, as in hiseagerness he knelt on one knee beside the chair, 'it must not be. It istrue that the Regent and his sons would willingly see you in a cloister.Nay, that unmanly jeer of Walter Stewart's was, I verily believe, meantto drive you thither. But were you there, then would poor Lilias becomea prize worth having, and the only question would be, whether Walter ofAlbany, or Robert of Athole, or any of the rest of them, should tear heraway to be the lady of their fierce ungodly households.'

  'You could give her to Patrick, Uncle.'

  'No, Malcolm, that were not consistent with mine honour, or oaths to theKing and State. You living, and Laird of Glenuskie, Lilias is a mereyounger sister, whom you may give in marriage as you will; but were youdead to the world, under a cowl, then the Lady of Glenuskie, a king'sgrandchild, may not be disposed of, save by her royal kinsman, or bythose who, woe worth the day! stand in his place. I were no better thanyon Wolf of Badenoch or the Master of Albany, did I steal a march on theRegent, and give the poor lassie to my own son!'

  'And so Lilias must pine, and Patrick wander off to the weary Frenchwar,' sighed Malcolm; 'and I must be scorned by my cousins whenever theHouse of Stewart meets together; and must strive with these fierce cruelmen, that will ever be too hard for me when Patie is gone.' His eyesfilled with tears as he continued, 'Ah! that fair chapel, with the sweetchant of the choir, the green smooth-shaven quadrangle, the calm cloisterwalk; there, there alone is rest. There, one ceases to be a prey and alaughing-stock; there, one sees no more bloodshed and spulzie; there, oneneed not be forced to treachery or violence. Oh, Uncle! my very soul issick for Coldingham. How many years will it be ere I can
myself bestowmy sister on Patie, and hide my head in peace!'

  Before his uncle had done more than answer, 'Nay, nay, Malcolm, these areno words for the oe of Bruce; you are born to dare as well as to suffer,'there was an approach of footsteps, and two young people entered thehall; the first a girl, with a family likeness to Malcolm, but tall,upright, beautiful, and with the rich colouring of perfect health, herplaid still hanging in a loose swelling hood round her brilliant face anddark hair, snooded with a crimson ribbon and diamond clasp; the other, aknightly young man, of stately height and robust limbs, keen bright blueeyes and amber hair and beard, moving with the ease and grace that showedhis training in the highest school of chivalry.

  'Good Uncle,' cried the maiden in eager excitement, 'there is a guestcoming. He has just turned over the brae side, and can be coming nowherebut here.'

  'A guest!' cried both Malcolm and the elder knight, 'of what kind, Lily?'

  'A knight--a knight in bright steel, and with three attendants,' saidLilias; 'one of Patrick's French comrades, say I, by the grace of hisriding.'

  'Not a message from the Regent, I trust,' sighed Malcolm. 'Patie, oh donot lower the drawbridge, till we hear whether it be friend or foe.'

  'Nay, Malcolm, 'tis well none save friends heard that,' said Patrick.'When shall we make a brave man of you?'

  'Nevertheless, Patie,' said the old gentleman, 'though I had rather thecaution had come from the eldest rather than the youngest head among us,parley as much as may serve with honour and courtesy ere opening the gateto the stranger. Hark, there is his bugle.'

  A certain look of nervous terror passed over young Malcolm's face, whilehis sister watched full of animation and curiosity, as one to whomexcitement of any kind could hardly come amiss, exclaiming, as she lookedfrom the window, 'Fear not, most prudent Malcolm; Father Ninian is withhim: Father Ninian must have invited him.'

  'Strange,' muttered Patrick, 'that Father Ninian should be picking up andbringing home stray wandering land-loupers;' and with an anxious glanceat Lilias, he went forward unwillingly to perform those duties ofhospitality which had become necessary, since the presence of the castlechaplain was a voucher for the guest. The drawbridge had already beenlowered, and the new-comer was crossing it upon a powerful black steed,guided by Father Ninian upon his rough mountain pony, on which he hadshortly before left the castle, to attend at a Church festival held atColdingham.

  The chaplain was a wise, prudent, and much-respected man; nevertheless,young Sir Patrick Drummond felt little esteem for his prudence indisplaying one at least of the treasures of the castle to the knight onthe black horse. The stranger was a very tall man, of robust andstalwart make, apparently aged about seven or eight and twenty years,clad in steel armour, enamelled so as to have a burnished blueappearance; but the vizor of the helmet was raised, and the face beneathit was a manly open face, thoroughly Scottish in its forms, but veryhandsome, and with short dark auburn hair, and eyes of the same peculiartint, glancing with a light that once seen could never be forgotten; andthe bearing was such, that Patrick at once growled to himself, 'One ofour haughty loons, brimful of _outre cuidance_; and yet how coolly hebears it off. If he looks to find us his humble servants, he will findhimself mistaken, I trow.'

  'Sir Patrick,' said Father Ninian, who was by this time close to him,'let me present to you Sir James Stewart, a captive knight who is come tocollect his ransom. I fell in with him on the road, and as his road laywith mine, I made bold to assure him of a welcome from your honouredfather and Lord Malcolm.'

  Patrick's face cleared. It was no grace or beauty that he feared in anystranger, but the sheer might and unright that their Regency enabled theHouse of Albany to exercise over the orphans of the royal family, whosehead was absent; and a captive knight could be no mischievous person.Still this might be only a specious pretence to impose on the chaplain,and gain admittance to the castle; and Patrick was resolved to be well onhis guard, though he replied courteously to the graceful bow with whichthe stranger greeted him, saying in a manly mellow voice and southernaccent, 'I have been bold enough to presume on the good father's offer ofhospitality, Sir.'

  'You are welcome, Sir,' returned Patrick, taking the stranger's bridlethat he might dismount; 'my father and my cousin will gladly further onhis way a prisoner seeking freedom.'

  'A captive may well be welcome, for the sake of one prisoner,' said hisfather, who had in the meantime come forward, and extended his hand tothe knight, who took it, and uncovering his bright locks, respectfullysaid, 'I am in the presence of the noble Tutor of Glenuskie.'

  'Even so, Sir,' returned Sir David Drummond, who was, in fact, as hisnephew's guardian, usually known by this curious title; 'and you here seemy wards, the Lord Malcolm and Lady Lilias. Your knighthood will makeallowances for the lad, he is but home-bred.' For while Lilias withstately grace responded to Sir James Stewart's courtly greeting, Malcolmbashfully made an awkward bow, and seemed ready to shrink within himself,as, indeed, the brutal jests of his rude cousins had made him dread andhate the eye of a stranger; and while the knight was led forward to thehall fire, he merely pressed up to the priest, and eagerly demanded underhis breath, 'Have you brought me the book?' but Father Ninian had onlytime to nod, and sign that a volume was in his bosom, before old SirDavid called out, 'What now, Malcolm, forgetting that your part is tocome and disarm the knight who does you the honour to be your guest?' AndSir Patrick rather roughly pushed him forward, gruffly whispering, 'Leavenot Lily to supply your lack of courtesy.'

  Malcolm shambled forward, bewildered, as the keen auburn eye fell on him,and the cheery kindly voice said, 'Ha! a new book--a romance? Well maythat drive out other thoughts.'

  'Had he ears to hear such a whisper?' thought Malcolm, as he mumbled inthe hoarse voice of bashful boyhood, 'Not a romance, Sir, but whateverthe good fathers at Coldingham would lend me.'

  'It is the "Itinerarium" of the blessed Adamnanus,' replied FatherNinian, producing from his bosom a parcel, apparently done up in manywrappers, a seal-skin above all.

  'The "Itinerarium"!' exclaimed Sir James, 'methought I had heard of sucha book. I have a friend in England who would give many a fair rose noblefor a sight of it.'

  'A friend in England!'--the words had a sinister sound to the audience,and while Malcolm jealously gathered up the book into his arms, thepriest made cold answer, that the book was the property of the Monasteryat Coldingham, and had only been lent to Lord Malcolm Stewart by specialfavour. The guest could not help smiling, and saying he was glad bookswere thus prized in Scotland; but at that moment, as the sunny look shoneon his face, and he stood before the fire in the close suit of chamoisleather which he wore under his armour, old Sir David exclaimed, 'Ha!never did I see such a likeness. Patie, you should be old enough toremember; do you not see it?'

  'What should I see? Who is he like?' asked Patrick, surprised at hisfather's manner.

  'Who?' whispered Sir David in a lowered voice; 'do you not see it? to theunhappy lad, the Duke of Rothsay.'

  Patrick could not help smiling, for he had been scarcely seven years oldat the time of the murder of the unfortunate Prince of Scotland; but aflush of colour rose into the face of the guest, and he shortly answered,'So I have been told;' and then assuming a seat near Sir David, heentered into conversation with him upon the condition of Scotland at theperiod, inquiring into the state of many of the families and districts byname. Almost always there was but one answer--murder--harrying--foray;and when the question followed, 'What had the Regent done?' there was ashrug of the shoulders, and as often Sir James's face flushed with a darkred fire, and his hand clenched at the hilt of the sword by his side.

  'And is there not a man in Scotland left to strike for the right?' hedemanded at last; 'cannot nobles, clergy, and burghers, band themselvesin parliament to put down Albany and his bloody house, and recall theirtrue head?'

  'They love to have it so,' returned Sir David sadly. 'United, they mightbe strong enough; but each knows that his fellow
, Douglas, Lennox, March,or Mar, would be ready to play the same game as Albany; and to raise arival none will stir.'

  'And so,' proceeded Sir James, bitterly, 'the manhood of Scotland goesforth to waste itself in an empty foreign war, merely to keep France inas wretched a state of misrule as itself.'

  'Nay, nay, Sir,' cried Patrick angrily, 'it is to save an ancient allyfrom the tyranny of our foulest foe. It is the only place where aScotsman can seek his fortune with honour, and without staining his soulwith foul deeds. Bring our King home, and every sword shall be at hisservice.'

  'What, when they have all been lavished on the crazy Frenchman?' said SirJames.

  'No, Sir,' said Patrick, rising in his vehemence; 'when they have beenbrightened there by honourable warfare, not tarnished by homebarbarities.'

  'He speaks truly,' said Sir David; 'and though it will go to my heart topart with the lad, yet may I not say a word to detain him in a land wherethe contagion of violence can scarce be escaped by a brave man.'

  Sir James gave a deep sigh as of pain, but as if to hinder its beingremarked, promptly answered, 'That may be; but what is to be the lot of aland whose honest men desert her cause as too evil for them, and seek outanother, that when seen closer is scarce less evil?'

  'How, Sir!' cried Patrick; 'you a prisoner of England, yet speakingagainst our noble French allies, so foully trampled on?'

  'I have lived long enough in England,' returned Sir James, 'to think thatland happiest where law is strong enough to enforce peace and order.'

  'The coward loons!' muttered Patrick, chiefly out of the spirit ofopposition.

  'You have been long in England, Sir?' said Lilias, hoping to direct theconversation into a more peaceful current.

  'Many years, fair lady,' he replied, turning courteously to her; 'I wastaken when I was a mere lad, but I have had gentle captors, and no overharsh prison.'

  'And has no one ransomed you?' she asked pitifully, as one much moved bya certain patience on his brow, and in his sweet full voice.

  'No one, lady. My uncle was but too willing that the heir should be keptaloof; and it is only now he is dead, that I have obtained leave from myfriendly captor to come in search of my ransom.'

  Lilias would have liked to know the amount, but it was not manners toask, since the rate of ransom was the personal value of the knight; andher uncle put in the question, who was his keeper.

  'The Earl of Somerset,' rather hastily answered Sir James; and then atonce Lilias exclaimed, 'Ah, Uncle, is not the King, too, in his charge?'And then questions crowded on. 'What like is the King? How brooks hehis durance? What freedom hath he? What hope is there of his return?Can he brook to hear of his people's wretchedness?'

  This was the first question at which Sir James attempted to unclose hishitherto smiling and amused lip. Then it quivered, and the dew glitteredin his eyes as he answered, 'Brook it! No indeed, lady. His heart burnswithin him at every cry that comes over the Border, and will well-nighburst at what I have seen and heard! King Harry tells him that to sendhim home were but tossing him on the swords of the Albany. Better,better so, to die in one grapple for his country's sake, than lie bound,hearing her bitter wails, and unable to stir for her redress!' and as hedashed the indignant tear from his eyes, Patrick caught his hand.

  'Your heart is in the right place, friend,' he said; 'I look on you as anhonest man and brother in arms from this moment.'

  ''Tis a bargain,' said Sir James, the smile returning, and his eyes againglistening as he wrung Sir Patrick's hand. 'When the hour comes for thetrue rescue of Scotland, we will strike together.'

  'And you will tell the King,' added Patrick, 'that here are true hearts,and I could find many more, only longing to fence him from the Albanyswords, about which King Harry is so good as to fash himself.'

  'But what like is the King?' asked Lilias eagerly. 'Oh, I would fain seehim. Is it true that he was the tallest man at King Harry's sacring?more shame that he were there!'

  'He and I are much of a height, lady,' returned the knight. 'Maybe I maygive you the justest notion of him by saying that I am said to be hisvery marrow.'

  'That explains your likeness to the poor Duke,' said Sir David,satisfied; 'and you too count kindred with our royal house, methinks?'

  'I am sprung from Walter the Stewart, so much I know; my lands lieCarrick-wards,' said Sir James lightly, 'but I have been a prisoner solong, that the pedigree of my house was never taught me, and I can makeno figure in describing my own descent.' And as though to put an end tothe inquiry, he walked to the window, where Malcolm so soon as they hadbegun to talk of the misrule of Scotland, had ensconced himself in thewindow-seat with his new book, making the most of the failing light, andasked him whether the Monk of Iona equalled his expectations.

  Malcolm was not easy to draw out at first, but it presently appeared thathe had been baffled by a tough bit of Latinity. The knight looked, andreadily expounded the sentence, so that all became plain; and then, as itwas already too dark to pursue the study with comfort, he stood over theboy, talking to him of books and of poems, while the usually pale,listless, uninterested countenance responded by looks of eager delightand flushing colour.

  It seemed as though each were equally pleased with the other: Sir James,at finding so much knowledge and understanding in a Scottish castle; andMalcolm, at, for the first time, meeting anything but contempt for histastes from aught but an ecclesiastic.

  Their talk continued till they were summoned to supper, which had beensomewhat delayed to provide for the new-comers. It was a simple enoughmeal, suited to Lent, and was merely of dried fish, with barley bread andkail brose; but there were few other places in Scotland where it wouldhave been served with so much of the refinement that Sir David Drummondand his late wife had learnt in France. A tablecloth and napkins,separate trenchers, and water for hand cleansing, were not always to befound in the houses of the nobles; and in fact, there were those whocharged Malcolm's delicacy and timidity on the _nisete_ or folly of hiseffeminate education; the having the rushes on the floor frequentlychanged, the preference of lamps for pine torches, and the not keepingfalcons, dogs, swine, and all, pell mell in the great hall.

  Lilias sat between her uncle and his guest, looking so fair and brightthat Patrick felt fresh accesses of angry jealousy, while the visitortalked as one able to report to the natives from another world, and thatworld the hateful England, which as a Scotsman he was bound to abhor. Hadit been France, it had been endurable, but praise of English habits wasmere disloyalty; and yet, whenever Patrick tried to throw in adisparaging word, he found himself met with a quiet superiority such ashe had believed no knight in Scotland could assume with him, and still itwas neither brow-beating nor insolence, nothing that could give offence.

  Malcolm begged to know whether there had not been a rare good poet inEngland, called Chaucer. Verily there had been, said the knight; and ona little solicitation, so soon as supper was over, he recited to theeager and delighted auditors the tale of patient Grisel, as rendered byChaucer, calling forth eager comments from both Patrick and Lily, on theunknightliness of the Marquis. Malcolm, however, added, 'Yet, after all,she was but a mere peasant wench.'

  'What makes that, young Sir?' replied Sir James gravely. 'I would haveyou to know that the husband's rank is the wife's, and the more unequalwere their lot before, the more is he bound to respect her, and to makeher be respected.'

  'That may be, after the deed is done,' said Sir David, in a warningvoice; 'but it is not well that like should not match with like. Many anevil have I seen in my time, from unequal mating.'

  'And, Sir,' eagerly exclaimed Patrick, 'no doubt you can gainsay theslander, that our noble King has been caught in the toils of an artfulEnglishwoman, and been drawn in to promise her a share in his crown.'

  A flush of crimson flamed forth on Sir James Stewart's cheeks, and histawny eye glanced with a fire like red lightning, but he seemed, as itwere, to be holding himself in, and answered with a voice forci
bly keptlow and calm, and therefore the more terribly stern, 'Young Sir, I warnyou to honour your future queen.'

  Sir David made a gesture with his hand, enforcing restraint upon his son,and turning to Sir James, said, 'Our queen will we honour, when such sheis, Sir; but if you are returning to the King, it were well that heshould know that our hot Scottish bloods, here, could scarce brook anEnglish alliance, and certainly not one beneath his birth.'

  'The King would answer, Sir,' returned Sir James, haughtily, but withrecovered command over himself, 'that it is for him to judge whom hissubjects shall brook as their queen. Moreover,' he added, in a differentand more conciliatory voice, 'Scotsmen must be proud indeed who disdainthe late King's niece, the great-granddaughter of King Edward III., andas noble and queenly a demoiselle as ever was born in a palace.'

  'She is so very fair, then?' said Lilies, who was of course on the sideof true love. 'You have seen her, gentle Sir? Oh, tell us what are herbeauties?'

  'Fair damsel,' said Sir James, in a much more gentle tone, 'you forgetthat I am only a poor prisoner, who have only now and then viewed thelady Joan Beaufort with distant reverence, as destined to be my queen.All I can tell is, that her walk and bearing mark her out for a throne.'

  'And oh!' cried Malcolm, 'is it not true that the King hath composedsongs and poems in her honour?'

  'Pah!' muttered Patrick; 'as though the King would be no better than awandering minstrel rhymester!'

  'Or than King David!' dryly said Sir James.

  'It is true, then, Sir,' exclaimed Lilias. 'He doth verily addminstrelsy to his other graces? Know you the lines, Sir? Can you singthem to us? Oh, I pray you.'

  'Nay, fair maid,' returned Sir James, 'methinks I might but add to thescorn wherewith Sir Patrick is but too much inclined to regard thecaptive King.'

  'A captive, a captive--ay, minstrelsy is the right solace for a captive,'said Patrick; 'at least, so they say and sing. Our king will have betterwork when he gains his freedom. Only there will come before me asubtilty I once saw in jelly and blanc-mange, at a banquet in France,where a lion fell in love with a hunter's daughter, and let her, forlove's sake, draw his teeth and clip his claws, whereupon he foundhimself made a sport for her father's hounds.'

  'I promise you, Sir Patrick,' replied the guest, 'that the Lady Joan ismore hike to send her Lion forth from the hunter's toils, with claws andteeth fresh-whetted by the desire of honour.

  'But the lay--the hay, Sir,' entreated Lilias; 'who knows that it may notwin Patrick to be the Lady Joan's devoted servant? Malcolm, your harp!'

  Malcolm had already gone in quest of the harp he loved all the better forthe discouragement thrown on his gentle tastes.

  The knight leant back, with a pensive look softening his features as hesaid, after a little consideration, 'Then, fair lady, I will sing you thesong made by King James, when he had first seen the fair mistress of hisheart, on the slopes of Windsor, looking from his chamber window. Hefeigns her to be a nightingale.'

  'And what is that, Sir?' demanded Lilias. 'I have heard the word inromances, and deemed it a kind of angel that sings by night.'

  'It is a bird, sister,' replied Malcolm; 'Philomel, that pierces herbreast with a thorn, and sings sweetly even to her death.'

  'That's mere minstrel leasing, Malcolm,' said Patrick. 'I have both seenand heard the bird in France--_Rossignol_, as we call it there; and wereI a lady, I should deem it small compliment to be likened to a littlerusset-backed, homely fowl such as that.'

  'While I,' replied the prisoner, 'feel so much with your fair sister,that nightingales are a sort of angels that sing by night, that it painsme, when I think of winning my freedom, to remember that I shall neveragain hear their songs answering one another through the forest ofWindsor.'

  Patrick shrugged his shoulders, but Lilias was so anxious to hear thelay, that she entreated him to be silent; and Sir James, with a manlymellow voice, with an exceedingly sweet strain in it, and a skill, bothof modulation and finger, such as showed admirable taste and instruction,poured forth that beautiful song of the nightingale at Windsor, whichcommences King James's story of his love, in his poem of the King'sQuhair.

  There was an eager pressing round to hear, and not only were Lilias andMalcolm, but old Sir David himself, much affected by the strain, whichthe latter said put him in mind of the days of King Robert III., which,sad as they were, now seemed like good old times, so much worse was thepresent state of affairs. Sir James, however, seemed anxious to preventdiscussion of the verses he had sung, and applied to Malcolm to give aspecimen of his powers: and thus, with music, ballad, and lay, theevening passed away, till the parting cup was sent round, and the Tutorof Glenuskie and Malcolm marshalled their guest to the apartment where hewas to sleep, in a wainscoted box bedstead, and his two attendantsquires, a great iron-gray Scot and a rosy honest-faced Englishman, onpallets on the floor.

  In the morning he went on his journey, but not without an invitation torest there again on his way back, whether with or without his ransom. Hepromised to come, saying that he should gladly bear to the King the lastadvices from one so honoured as the Tutor of Glenuskie; and, on theirsides, Malcolm and Sir David resolved to do their best to have some goldpieces to contribute, rather than so 'proper a knight' should fail inraising his ransom; but gold was never plenty, and Patrick needed allthat his uncle could supply, to bear him to those wars in France, wherehe looked for renown and fortune.

  For these were, as may have been gathered, those evil days when James I.of Scotland was still a captive to England, and when the House of Albanyexercised its cruel misrule upon Scotland; delaying to ransom the King,lest they should bring home a master.

  Old Robert of Albany had been King Stork, his son Murdoch was King Log;and the misery was infinitely increased by the violence and lawlessnessof Murdoch's sons. King Robert II. had left Scotland the fearful legacyof, as Froissart says, 'eleven sons who loved arms.' Of these, RobertIII. was the eldest, the Duke of Albany the second. These were bothdead, and were represented, the one by the captive young King James, theother by the Regent, Duke Murdoch of Albany, and his brother John, Earlof Buchan, now about to head a Scottish force, among whom PatrickDrummond intended to sail, to assist the French.

  Others of the eleven, Earls of Athol, Menteith, &c., survived; but theyoungest of the brotherhood, by name Malcolm, who had married the heiressof Glenuskie, had been killed at Homildon Hill, when he had solemnlycharged his Stewart nephews and brothers to leave his two orphan childrento the sole charge of their mother's cousin, Sir David Drummond, a goodold man, who had been the best supporter and confidant of poor RobertIII. in his unhappy reign, and in embassies to France had lost much ofthe rugged barbarism to which Scotland had retrograded during the warswith England.