your lord in
danger among his foes?" cried his mother, angrily.

"Dear mother, I have something more to tell ye--"

"Aye, I ken, ye needna break the news. It is that Malise, my man, is
dead--that Laurence, wha ran frae the Abbey to gang wi' him to the
wars, is nae mair. Aweel they are worthily spent, since they died for
their chief! Ye say that ye were sent to raise the clan--then what
seek ye at the Carlinwark? To Thrieve, man, to Thrieve; as hard as ye
can ride! To Castle Thrieve!"

"Mother," said Sholto, still more gently, "hearken but a moment.
Thirty thousand men are on their way to Edinburgh. Three days and
nights have I ridden without sleep. Douglasdale is awake. The Upper
Ward is already at the gates of the city. To a man, Galloway is on
the march. The border is aflame. But it is all too late already, I
have had news of the end. Before ever a man could reach within miles,
the fatal axe had fallen, and my lords, for whom each one of us would
gladly have died with smiles upon our faces, lay headless in the
courtyard of Edinburgh Castle."

"And if the laddies were alive when ye rode awa', wha brocht the news
faster than my Sholto could ride--tell me that?"

"I came not directly to Galloway, mother. First I raised the west from
Strathaven to Ayr. Thence I carried the news to Dumfries and along the
border side. But to-day I have seen the Lady Sybilla on her way to
take ship for France. From her I heard the news that all I had done
was too late."

"That foreigneerin' randy! Wad ye believe the like o' her? Yon woman
that they named 'Queen o' Beauty' at the tournay by the Fords o'
Lochar!--Certes, I wadna believe her on oath, no if she swore on the
blessed banes o' Saint Andro himsel'. To the castle, man, or I'll kilt
my coats and be there afore you to shame ye!"

"I go, mother," said Sholto, trying vainly to stem the torrent of
denunciation which poured upon him; "I came only to see that all was
well with you."

"And what for should a' be weel wi' me? What can be ill wi' me, if it
be not to gang on leevin' when the noblest young men in the warld--the
lad that was suckled at my bosom, lies cauld in the clay. Awa wi' ye,
Sholto MacKim, and come na back till ye hae rowed every traitor in the
same bloody windin' sheet!"

The foster mother of the Douglases sank on the ground in the dusk,
leaning against the wall of her house. She held her face in her hands
and sobbed aloud, "O Willie, Willie Douglas, mair than o