er with shame.

She hung back, and could be hardly dragged forward to the embattled
gateway of the bridge by her brother--who, as the guards, jealously
cautious even in this time of peace, called out to him to stand, showed
his ring bearing the royal arms, and desired to speak within the captain
of the garrison, who was commanding in the name of the Earl of
Northumberland, Governor of Berwick and Warden of the Marches, and who
had entertained him on his way north, and would have been warned by
Patrick of his probable return in this guise.

Instead of the stalwart form of the veteran sub-governor, however, a
quick step came hurrying to the gateway, and the light figure of a young
knight stood before him, with outstretched hands, crying: 'Welcome to the
good town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, dear comrade!' And he added in a lower
tone: 'So you have succeeded in your quest--if, as I trow, this fairest
of clerks be your lady sister. May I--'

'Hold!' softly said Malcolm. 'She is so shamefast that she cannot brook
a word;' and in fact Lilias had pulled her hood over her face, and shrunk
behind him, at the first approach of the young gentleman.

'We will to my mother,' said Ralf, aloud. 'She has always a soft corner
in her heart for a young clerk or a wanderer.'

And so saying, without even looking at the disguised figure, he gave the
pass-word, and holding Malcolm by the arm, led him, followed by Lilias,
through the defences and into the court of the castle, then to a side-
door, where, bounding up several steps at once of a stone stair, he
opened a sort of anteroom door, and bade the two strangers wait there
while he fetched his mother.

'That is well! Who would have looked to see him here!' cried Malcolm,
joyously. 'What, you knew him not? It was Ralf Percy, my dear old
companion!'

'Ralf Percy! he that was so bold and daring?' cried Lilias. 'Nay, but
how can it be, he was as meek and shamefast--'

'As yourself,' smiled Malcolm. 'Ah, sister, you have much to learn of
the ways of an English gentleman among ladies.'

Before many further words could be exchanged, there entered a fair and
matronly dame in the widow's veil she had worn ever since the fatal day
of Shrewsbury--that eager, loving, yet almost childish woman whom we know
so well as Hotspur's gentle Kate (only that unfortunately her name was
Elizabeth); fondling, teasing, being fondled and teased in return, and
then with all her pretty puerilities scorch