ghtness of the courtier, the mad bravado of knight-errantry,
which was not uncommon to the times, indeed, were not there. It was the
quiet courage of the resolved warrior, the calm of a spirit at peace
with itself, shedding its own high feeling and poetic glory over all
around him.

On reaching the foot of King Robert's throne, both youths knelt and
laid their sheathed swords at his feet. Their armor-bearers then
approached, and the ceremony of clothing the candidates in steel
commenced; the golden spur was fastened on the left foot of each by his
respective godfather, while Athol, Hay, and other nobles advanced to do
honor to the youths, by aiding in the ceremony. Nor was it
warriors alone.

"Is this permitted, lady?" demanded the king, smiling, as the Countess
of Buchan approached the martial group, and, aided by Lennox, fastened
the polished cuirass on the form of her son. "Is it permitted for a
matron to arm a youthful knight? Is there no maiden to do such
inspiring office?"

"Yes, when the knight is one like this, my liege," she answered, in the
same tone. "Let a matron arm him, good my liege," she added, sadly: "let
a mother's hand enwrap his boyish limbs in steel, a mother's blessing
mark him thine and Scotland's, that those who watch his bearing in the
battle-field may know who sent him there, may thrill his heart with
memories of her who stands alone of her ancestral line, that though he
bears the name of Comyn, the blood of Fife flows reddest in his veins!"

"Arm him and welcome, noble lady," answered the king, and a buzz of
approbation ran through the hall; "and may thy noble spirit and
dauntless loyalty inspire him: we shall not need a trusty follower while
such as he are around us. Yet, in very deed, my youthful knight must
have a lady fair for whom he tilts to-day. Come hither, Isoline, thou
lookest verily inclined to envy thy sweet friend her office, and nothing
loth to have a loyal knight thyself. Come, come, my pretty one, no
blushing now. Lennox, guide those tiny hands aright."

Laughing and blushing, Isoline, the daughter of Lady Campbell, a sister
of the Bruce, a graceful child of some thirteen summers, advanced
nothing loth, to obey her royal uncle's summons; and an arch smile of
real enjoyment irresistibly stole over the countenance of Alan,
dispersing the emotion his mother's words produced.

"Nay, tremble not, sweet one," the king continued, in a lower and yet
kinder tone, as he turned fro