ind. With the bold, the hardy,
lowly Scot that gleam had birth; they would be free to them. What
mattered that their tyrant was a valiant knight, a worthy son of
chivalry: they saw but an usurper, an enslaver, and they rose and
spurned his smiles--aye, and they _will_ rise again. And wert thou one
of them, sweet girl; a cotter's wife, thou too wouldst pine for freedom.
Yes; Scotland will bethink her of her warrior's fate, and shout aloud
revenge for Wallace!"

Either his argument was unanswerable, or the energy of his voice and
manner carried conviction with them, but a brighter glow mantled the
maiden's cheek, and with it stole the momentary shame--the wish, the
simple words that she had spoken could be recalled.

"Give us but a king for whom to fight--a king to love, revere, obey--a
king from whose hand knighthood were an honor, precious as life itself,
and there are noble hearts enough to swear fealty to him, and bright
swords ready to defend his throne," said the young heir of Buchan, as he
brandished his own weapon above his head, and then rested his arms upon
its broad hilt, despondingly. "But where is that king? Men speak of my
most gentle kinsman Sir John Comyn, called the Red--bah! The sceptre
were the same jewelled bauble in his impotent hand as in his sapient
uncle's; a gem, a toy, forsooth, the loan of crafty Edward. No! the Red
Comyn is no king for Scotland; and who is there besides? The rightful
heir--a cold, dull-blooded neutral--a wild and wavering changeling. I
pray thee be not angered, Nigel; it cannot be gainsaid, e'en though he
is thy brother."

"I know it Alan; know it but too well," answered Nigel, sadly, though
the dark glow rushed up to cheek and brow. "Yet Robert's blood is hot
enough. His deeds are plunged in mystery--his words not less so; yet I
cannot look on him as thou dost, as, alas! too many do. It may be that I
love him all too well; that dearer even than Edward, than all the rest,
has Robert ever been to me. He knows it not; for, sixteen years my
senior, he has ever held me as a child taking little heed of his wayward
course; and yet my heart has throbbed beneath his word, his look, as if
he were not what he seemed, but would--but must be something more."

"I ever thought thee but a wild enthusiast, gentle Nigel, and this
confirms it. Mystery, aye, such mystery as ever springs from actions at
variance with reason, judgment, valor--with all that frames the patriot.
Would that thou we