d so great a
loss, and when Sir Patrick Charteris had assisted Magdalen Proudfute to
kneel down and, still holding her hand, kneeled himself on one knee,
it was with a sympathetic tone that King Robert asked her name and
business. She made no answer, but muttered something, looking towards
her conductor.

"Speak for the poor woman, Sir Patrick Charteris," said the King, "and
tell us the cause of her seeking our presence."

"So please you, my liege," answered Sir Patrick, rising up, "this woman,
and these unhappy orphans, make plaint to your Highness upon Sir John
Ramorny of Ramorny, Knight, that by him, or by some of his household,
her umquhile husband, Oliver Proudfute, freeman and burgess of Perth,
was slain upon the streets of the city on the eve of Shrove Tuesday or
morning of Ash Wednesday."

"Woman," replied the King, with much kindness, "thou art gentle by sex,
and shouldst be pitiful even by thy affliction; for our own calamity
ought to make us--nay, I think it doth make us--merciful to others. Thy
husband hath only trodden the path appointed to us all."

"In his case," said the widow, "my liege must remember it has been a
brief and a bloody one."

"I agree he hath had foul measure. But since I have been unable to
protect him, as I confess was my royal duty, I am willing, in atonement,
to support thee and these orphans, as well or better than you lived in
the days of your husband; only do thou pass from this charge, and be
not the occasion of spilling more life. Remember, I put before you the
choice betwixt practising mercy and pursuing vengeance, and that betwixt
plenty and penury."

"It is true, my liege, we are poor," answered the widow, with unshaken
firmness "but I and my children will feed with the beasts of the field
ere we live on the price of my husband's blood. I demand the combat by
my champion, as you are belted knight and crowned king."

"I knew it would be so!" said the King, aside to Albany. "In Scotland
the first words stammered by an infant and the last uttered by a dying
greybeard are 'combat--blood--revenge.' It skills not arguing farther.
Admit the defendants."

Sir John Ramorny entered the apartment. He was dressed in a long furred
robe, such as men of quality wore when they were unarmed. Concealed by
the folds of drapery, his wounded arm was supported by a scarf or
sling of crimson silk, and with the left arm he leaned on a youth,
who, scarcely beyond the years of boyhood, bore on