ed among the trees, she turned and
spoke once more.

"I have but one counsel, Sir Knight. Think no more of your master. Let
the dead bury their dead. Ride to Thrieve and never once lose sight of
her whom you call your sweetheart, nor yet of her charge, Margaret
Douglas, the Maid of Galloway, till the snow falls and winter comes
upon the land."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE MACKIMS COME TO THRIEVE

Sholto MacKim stood watching awhile as the white palfrey disappeared
with its rider into the purple twilight of the woods which barred the
way to the Solway. Then with a violent effort of will he recalled
himself and looked about for his horse. The tired beast was gently
cropping the lush dewy herbage on the green slope which led downwards
to his native cottage. Sholto took the grey by the bridle and walked
towards his mother's door, pondering on the last words of the Lady
Sybilla. A voice at once strenuous and familiar broke upon his ear.

"Shoo wi' you, impident randies that ye are, shoo! Saw I ever the like
aboot ony decent hoose? Thae hens will drive me oot o' my mind!
Sholto, lad, what's wrang? Is't your faither? Dinna tell me it's your
faither."

"It is more bitter than that, mither mine."

"No the Earl--surely no the Earl himsel'--the laddie that I hae
nursed--the laddie that was to Barbara Halliburton as her ain dear
son!"

"Mother, it is the Earl and young David too. They are dead, betrayed
into the hands of their enemies, cruelly and treacherously slain!"

Then the keening cry smote the air as Barbara MacKim sank on her knees
and lifted up her hands to heaven.

"Oh, the bonny laddies--the twa bonny, bonny laddies! Mair than my ain
bairns I loved them. When their ain mother wasna able for mortal
weakness to rear him, William Douglas drew his life frae me. What for,
Sholto, are ye standin' there to tell the tale? What for couldna ye
have died wi' him? Ae mither's milk slockened ye baith. The same arms
cradled ye. I bade ye keep your lord safe wi' your body and your soul.
And there ye daur to stand, skin-hale and bane unbroken, before your
mither. Get hence--ye are nae son o' Barbara MacKim. Let me never look
on your face again, gin ye bringna back the pride o' the warld, the
gladness o' the auld withered heart o' her ye ca' your mither!"

"Mother," said Sholto, "my lord was not dead when I left him--he sent
me to raise the country to his rescue."

"And what for then are ye standin' there clavering, and