m; it had overtaken
one as fair in promise, as beloved, and yet younger; and oh, if death
selected the best, the loveliest, the dearest, would it next fall on
him? The thought was such absolute agony, that the previous suffering
of that hour was lost before it.

"Bless thee--oh, may God in heaven bless thee, my brave, my noble
Nigel!" he exclaimed, with a burst of emotion, perfectly appalling in
one generally so controlled, and raising him, he strained him
convulsively to his heart. "Yet why should we part?" he added, after a
long pause; "why did I fix on thee for this office--are there not
others? Nigel, Nigel, say but the word, and thou shalt rest with me:
danger, privation, exile we have borne, and may still share together.
Why should I send thee from me, dearest, most beloved of all who call me
brother?"

"Why?" answered Nigel, raising his glistening eyes from his brother's
shoulder, "why, dear Robert? because thine eye could read my heart and
trust it; because thou knewest I would watch over those who bear thy
name, who are dear to thee, even as thy noble self. Oh, do not repent
thee of thy choice; 'tis hard to bear alone danger, so long encountered
hand in hand, yet as thou hast decided let it be. Thy words have soothed
my yearning heart, which craved to list thy voice once more; and now
then, my noble liege and brother, farewell. Think on thy Nigel's words;
even when misery is round thee thou shalt, thou shalt be blessed. Think
on them, my Robert, and then when joy and liberty and conquest crown
thee, oh, forget not Nigel."

He threw his arms around him, imprinted a fervent kiss on his cheek, and
was out of sight ere the king by sign or word could arrest his progress.
One hasty bound forward Robert indeed made, but a dimness stole over his
sight, and for one brief minute he sunk down on the grass, and when he
lifted his head again, there were burning tears upon his cheek.

CHAPTER XVI.

The hardships and dangers attendant on King Robert's progress southward,
mingled as they were with the very spirit of romance, are so well known
to every reader of Scottish history that they must be excluded from our
pages, although a tale of chivalry would seem the very place for their
insertion.

The life of no hero, no sovereign, no general, presents us with a
parallel to the lone and dreary passage of Loch Lomond. We hear of an
ancient and a modern Hannibal crossing the snowy Alps, but it was at the
head of tri