lish, and that your slightest actions will bring upon those you
love a fate of which you little dream."

"After what we remember of Crichton Castle, how can we trust you,
lady?" said Malise, sternly. "Do you now speak the truth with your
mouth?"

"You have indeed small cause to think so," she answered without taking
offence. "Yet, having no choice, you must e'en trust me."

She turned sharply upon Sholto with a strip of paper in her
outstretched hand.

"I think, young sir, that you have some reason to know from whom that
comes."

Sholto grasped at the writing with a new and wonderful hope in his
heart. He knew instinctively before he touched it that none but Maud
Lindesay could have written that script--small, clear, and distinct as
a motto cut on a gem.

"_To our friends in France and Scotland,_" so it ran. "_We are still
safe this eve of the Blessed Saint Michael. Trust her who brings this
letter. She is our saviour and our only hope in a dark and evil place.
She is sorry for that which by her aid hath been done. As you hope for
forgiveness, forgive her. And for God's dear sake, do immediately the
thing she bids you. This comes from Margaret de Douglas and Maud
Lindesay. It is written by the hand of M. L._"

The wax at the bottom was sealed in double with the boar's head of
Lindesay and the heart of Margaret of Douglas.

Sholto, having read the missive silently, passed it to the Lord James
that he might prove the seals, for it was his only learning to be
skilled in heraldry.

"It is true," he said; "I myself gave the little maid that ring. See,
it hath a piece broken from the peak of the device."

"My lady," said Sholto, "that which you bring is more than enough. We
kiss your hand and we will sacredly do all your bidding, were it unto
the death or the trial by fire."

Then, as was the custom to do to ladies whom knights would honour, the
Lord James and Sholto kneeled down and kissed the hand of Sybilla de
Thouars. But Malise, not being a knight, took it only and settled it
upon his great grizzled head, where it rested for a moment, lightly as
upon some grey and ancient tower lies a flake of snow before it melts.

"I thank you for your overmuch courtesy," the girl said, casting her
eyes on the ground with a new-born shyness most like that of a modest
maid; "I thank you, indeed. You do me honour far above my desert.
Still, after all, we work for one end. You have, it is true, the
nobler motive,--the live